Delirium Anonymous
by Dalliancetreads
Summary: Marcus/Didyme in the 21st century: against all odds, the lovers get another chance. But does lightning strike twice? After so long, how can it ever be the same?
1. Cartomancy

**_de·lir·i·um_/diˈli(ə)rēəm/**

Noun:

1. An acutely disturbed state of mind that occurs in fever, intoxication, and other disorders.

2. Wild excitement or ecstasy.

* * *

_Paris, 2010_

They were an eclectic mix, but Agnes was used to patrons in the margins. The eccentric and the desperate; her profession was a church that offered a sacrosanct reprieve to all. A quiet island sanctuary in the hectic modern world. Always and unfailing to comfort and protect. Priests, chemical engineers and truck drivers were all susceptible to its charms.

The twins were born on the 19th of March, the boundary between Pisces and Aquarius: Aubrey first, one minute before the clock struck midnight. Second was Agnes, in the fleeting moments of the new day.

When women stopped to peer under the hood of the pram, Agnes would reach up and pat their cheeks, seize their hair, gurgle and smile. Aubrey merely watched in quiet contemplation. He never grizzled or cried. As they grew older, Agnes was relegated to the spotlight; the golden trophy made to be touched and admired. In her job as mouthpiece, she often forgot her brother had a voice at all.

Today was one of those days. As she entertained their last customers, Aubrey observed carefully from a shadowy recess between a grandfather clock and an encoignure, his transmutable blue eyes analysing the three men in measured detail.

The trio were squeezed together uncomfortably on the small, two-person love-seat reserved for this very purpose; angled at the best vantage point for him to observe and be unobserved. He thought he was pretty good at what he did. But for some reason, his faculties were failing him.

The sunlight pulled out of the parlour room as late afternoon transitioned into early evening, catching on the many crystal ornaments hanging from the ceiling or precariously positioned on the many maple and cherry cabinets. Even in the glooming light, their beauty was unusually striking. Rainbows lingered on their skin, appearing to dance and shimmer.

They looked related, bearing similar stark-white skin, covered in a fine, dandruff-like power, and slightly fusty maroon eyes. The white-haired one was old enough to be the father of the two other black-haired boys. Their clothes were antiquated enough to look out-of-place on the street but aligned perfectly to Agnes's bric-a-brac parlour.

The parlour was painted cream and peach and crammed with various and apparently random objects: portraits and china tea-sets and marble busts and several taxidermic animals carefully positioned in large glass bell-jars. Maps of the Parisian necropolis shared wall space with a large photograph of the Lévi family (Aubrey and Agnes could be distinguished as two precious-metal heads peeking out from behind their father's polio-damaged leg.) The room looked like a Victorian _Wunderkammer... _or the physical manifestation of an unbalanced mind.

A small space was cleared somewhere in the midst of it all; a performance space for Agnes. She stood on the balls of her feet, bouncing up and down like a prize fighter. Then, with a mysterious signal known only to her, she sprung into motion.

Her hand swept through the air in a gesture of welcome. Her hands and forearms were clad in a thin membrane of white, lacy glove- as were his. She couldn't tolerate sliders and hairbands, so her waist-length golden locks spilled down her shoulders and back unimpeded. She was wearing a gown of golden silk, tightly corseted to her waist and flaring like an upended tea-cup in carefully arranged pleats. Tiny pearls were sewn all over the gown and hung from the skirt in long cords which clacked together as she moved. It was designed to take one's breath away, and to plant one firmly in the realm of the mystical, the _supernatural. _

Beneath the layers of silk and lace and cotton, the cellphone tucked into her underpants was switched to silent.

"My friends," she announced in a voice as grandiose as her hand-gestures. "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance! My name is Agnes, and _he_"; she wafted her hand in his vague direction, "is Aubrey."

"Hey," Aubrey said from the shadows. "What's up."

The black-haired man seated in the middle glanced curiously in his direction. "_Wonderful_," he cried joyfully. "Wonderful to meet you at last, my dears!"

Agnes gave a small curtsey, a poised smile curling across her face. "Am I'm correct in assuming our reputation precedes us? Whose particular service do you require?"

The man smiled indulgently, eyes flickering briefly to the men flanking him. The other black-haired one, no older than a boy, was staring at a stuffed wildcat. He appeared completely disaffected by its snarling canines. _Marcus_, Aubrey thought. The boy had a plain face, but his crowning feature was striking enough- a full complement of curly, corkscrew hair.

The albino smirked as he stared unabashedly at Aubrey's sister. Aubrey was having trouble reading his name. "We are told you are a fortune-teller, little one."

"Yes, and no," Agnes said airily, her smile widening to a grin, more wolf than sheepish.

_Here we go_, Aubrey silently sighed.

Agnes moved her whole body like an interpretative dancer- to a customer it was hypnotic, mysterious, magical. The beads sewn into her dress clacked together in musical harmony.

"You _see_, the future is entirely _temperamental_, constantly diverging from the set course, changing as a _million_ things change in a _million_ ways. The human mind, is, of course, entirely predictable: a thing of synapses and hormones and wiring that will make the _same_ decision in the _same_ situation _over and over._" Her hands tumbled through circles in the air. "I could, for example, tell you what you will eat for breakfast tomorrow. However, I couldn't tell you if Schrödinger's cat lived or died."

"Of course!" The black-haired man cried rapturously. Aubrey was a little creeped out by his obvious enthusiasm; the first-timers, at least, usually possessed the social grace to be a little sceptical.

Agnes resisted the urge to exchange a glance with her sibling. Instead, she nodded sagely. Her young face was evenly striated by melodramatic earnestness and sarcasm. "I scry the future _in the heavens_," she elaborated as her hand cleaved the air above her head in two. "I have tools at hand- cards, crystal balls, tea leaves-" she spun around in a circle, and the light sparkled on her pearled dress. "-which aid divination, sometimes revealing what the stars have hidden- _but still._"

Here, she delivered a well-rehearsed delicate sigh, her hands dramatically clutched across to her heart. "It is still not a definite art. Unlike my dear _Aubrey_."

The man's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Oh-?" His attention switched to Aubrey.

"I read the past," Aubrey said bluntly. He felt stupid whenever he mimicked Agnes's _majesticism,_ so his hands hung loosely at his sides. He abruptly jolted into motion, picking his way through the room towards his sister. He was dressed in an impeccably well-tailored, Edwardian-style silver suit, a man's filigree cravat tied around his neck matching the lacy long-sleeved gloves he wore. The perfect complement to Agnes. Silver and gold. Au and Ag.

He hated it when they matched. It was _Agnes_ who craved the attention their profession provided. Aubrey just wanted to be normal. He didn't like going to school and spending his breaks in the library. He wanted a girlfriend.

His quicksilver hair was combed carefully off his face, revealing a face almost identical to his sister's. It was a touch more rounded, his apple cheeks getting a few shades ruddier when he spoke. "Most people wear their past like clothes, I guess. I look at what you're wearing and make inferences about it."

The man smiled sweetly, his head cocked expectantly to the side.

Aubrey cleared his throat. He scrutinised the man, his eyes travelling up and down and _through and beyond._ By instinct, he was drawn to the _holes_ first- holes punched through the thick membrane of the man's past. They usually indicated death, especially sudden death; because the person had little time to stitch up the space they left behind, they ripped a crevice wide open when they left.

Aubrey caught himself before he started to think about his mother.

"You're guilty about something," he said eventually. "Your... sister. She meant a lot to you. You were... supposed to protect her. It weighs you down."

Aubrey briefly glanced at the other men. He now had their full concentration, identical looks of horror and shock creasing their papery skin. Aubrey took this as an indicator he was on the right track. "She died some time ago... when you were very young. It happened quickly. Unexpected deaths often leave the largest holes. She meant a lot to you."

Agnes felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. _Not again, Aubrey_, she thought despondently. _You can't depress the customers, it's bad for business!_

She remembered a particular incidence wherein Aubrey described the minutiae of a teddy-bear, right down to the fraying threads in its ears and the initials sewn onto its right hind-paw. He ploughed on mercilessly, long after the woman pleaded for him to stop as the tears streaked down her face: he was describing the favourite toy of her terminally-ill child.

They had argued for hours afterwards. Aubrey didn't want to do it anymore. But he couldn't refuse his sister anything.

"And you..." he turned his attention to the white-haired man, the words tumbling out of his mouth in an uncensored rush; "your past is almost blank... that's a sure sign of psychopathy..."

"_Aubrey_!" she gasped. "_You can't say that-_"

"... though there's something there," Aubrey said over her. "He drowned, didn't he? And it was your fault, too..."

The man's eyes narrowed to slits.

Red-faced and flustered, Agnes's voice rose to a tremulous yell. "Aubrey, _stop right now!_"

The fountain of words slowed to a trickle, leaving silence in its place. A flush the colour of merlot rose in Aubrey's cheeks as he gradually came to his senses. He gave a little awkward bow. "Sorry... sometimes it just comes out like that. I can't help it when it _wants _to be said."

He hastily backed away. The white-haired man continued to glare at him, a chill rolling from him in palpable waves that made the hairs on the back of Agnes's neck stand on end.

"Y-yes," Agnes stammered out. "Aubrey can be a little... hasty, sometimes. I'm very sorry- if we've caused any offence...". She bowed her head in shame, the cupid's bow of her lips puckered into a pretty little pout.

The black-haired man in the middle laughed. "My _dearest _girl, no! My brother isn't offended in the least!"

Marcus (the only one Aubrey could read the name of; a dismal score for him) still wore the an expression of horror, as if his heart was suddenly wrenched from its cavity. The other continued to stare at Aubrey, pure hatred twisting his features into an animalistic snarl. He seriously doubted the man's expression was one of _forgiving benevolence_.

The coal-haired man seemed the only one of the three men completely at ease. "Tell them, _dear Caius, _that they are very much forgiven for their... little indiscretion."

Caius twisted his snarl into a mocking smile. "You're wrong," he said so quietly that Aubrey struggled to hear the words. "I don't have a son."

"Good, good," the black-haired man chuckled, awkwardly patting his companion on the knee. "Peace now, brother. Remember our purpose here."

Agnes cast a futile glance at her brother; rallying confidence from his presence."You there," Agnes adressed to Marcus, whose face was once again whiteboard-flat.

"Marcus," Aubrey supplied. Caius's continuing attention withered his words to a weak mew.

"_Marcus_," Agnes repeated, the charming, faultless smile plastered back on, "you're the only one my brother didn't read... maybe you'd like me to-?"

Marcus said "no" at the same the other black-haired one chirruped a "yes".

"Yes," Marcus sighed.

Agnes leaned towards him, hooking a hand under his elbow. He stood up, and she led him a little way across the room. He was complaint as a lamb.

"Take a seat," she commanded, pushing his shoulders (she didn't have to use very much force) into a plush chair propped up against a low folding card-table. It had a paisley tablecloth neatly thrown over it, at jaunty odds with the plain black box at its centre.

"The tarot is my preferred method of divination," she clarified, partially to Marcus (who wasn't listening) but mostly to the other man, of whom she was the object of a full and rapt attention. "Right," she muttered under her breath.

Agnes undid the clasps on the black box and withdrew her deck of cards. She shuffled so efficiently the cards blurred in her hands. They sounded like rain as the cardboard spines slapped together.

The cards were beautifully illustrated, illuminated in glowing inks- clearly very old. Despite their heavy use, they showed only the slightest signs of wear and tear. Agnes spread them across the tablecloth in a fan, face down.

"Choose the card that stands out the most to you," she explained languidly. "This card is the one that represents you... so choose _carefully_."

Disregarding her advice, he chose a card with barely a glance. It was the one on the very left-hand side. He handed it to her mutely, his eyes devoid of emotion.

Agnes flipped it over. The picture showed a man standing between two women who wore crowns. The man gazed at the woman wearing a crown of laurel; but she swatted him away with a disdainful glance. The other woman bore a crown of flowers and tentatively reached out to his heart.

"_L'Amoureux_, the lovers. You desire what you cannot have."

Agnes lay the card above the fan. She swept the remaining cards into a pile and divided it, creating three separate piles below the picture of _L'Amoureux_. "Now, choose the pile you feel most drawn to. Take as much time as you think you may need."

This time Marcus was a little more careful. The middle pile was arranged less orderly than the others, the ends of cards poking out like dog-ears from a book. Marcus enjoyed reading. It was also smaller than the other piles. "That one," he said quietly, pointing. His voice was raspy with underuse.

Agnes nodded, stacking the piles together again, putting his chosen pile on top. Then, tentatively, she started flipping them over, one by one, splaying them across the table in no detectable pattern. After about twelve cards, she stopped. Some of the cards bore intricate designs, while others had simple depictions of swords, cups, wands. "_La Maison Dieu, La Justice, Le Mat, La Papessa_," she muttered under her breath, touching some of the cards._ "Le Bateleur_. Hmmm..." Agnes looked up at found he was staring at her, perhaps just the slightest interest furrowing his brow. "There are many possibilities here."

She arranged the cards in a particular order; _L'Amoureux_ in the middle, surrounded by a ring of more elaborate cards and another ring of cups, hearts and wands, sliding some cards across the table. Others she just touched briefly and let them be. Occasionally she tittered or shook her head as the cards glided across the table, directed by her feminine hands. Once or twice, she felt a little current of electricity pass between her hands and the cards lying inert on the table, as if she were no more a person than a finely tuned dielectric meter.

"_Le Bateleur _indicates there will be a change in your life, and soon," Agnes said, touching an illustrated card of a youthful man in a colourful, patchwork doublet. Her hand then passed over _L'Amoureux_.

"You will fall in love."

Here, Agnes allowed herself to smile, though Marcus remained blank-faced. She jumped at the sound of Caius's barking laughter.

"_But..._ she is... enigmatic," Agnes said, touching a card showing a woman with her hands folded neatly in her lap. "She will break your heart."

Agnes gestured at the arrangement of hearts and swords. "I don't know... she may not be as she appears... there will be a decision to make."

Her hand hovered over a crumbling tower; two people fall from a height, terror on their faces. Her hand trembled slightly. "Then..._ La Maison Dieu_. The lightning-struck tower: catastrophe, disaster, chaos- there is burning, blood, pain-" Agnes closed her eyes, but the images come unbidden: _cities burning; a labyrinth; children screaming; lining the edges of a tunnel an overflowing array of human skulls..._

Agnes took a deep shuddering breath, running a hand over her eyes. She snapped them open again and pointed to the last card, a little apart from the others. It was blank for the number inscribed on the bottom. "Death."

"But that is just one possibility... the future rarely follows a foreseen path..." she clumsily swept up the cards and jammed them back in the box. "You must go now," Agnes said, springing to her feet. "No charge. Thank you."

With one fleeting look at her brother, she paced out of the room. Aubrey withdrew soon after, more quietly, until just Caius, Marcus and Aro remained. Marcus hadn't moved; staring blankly at the space the cards were.

"The boy was talented," Caius admitted after a time. "If I could restrain myself from ripping his head off."

Aro nodded in agreement. "Unfortunately, we have no present need for his _particular_ talent... talented he is, undoubtedly. We shall have to keep a close eye on him. Such a _shame_ about the girl, though... I was so sure, after everything we heard about her. But there isn't the _remotest_ possibility that-" he glanced across at his black-haired brother, who appeared to be in deep contemplation. "- and _twins_... it was just so promising. But she was nothing but a facade for her brother's true talent."

Caius shrugged. "You'll get your pre-cog one day, Aro."

"One day soon, I hope," Aro simpered lightly.

"_I hope..._" Marcus repeated, in such a quiet voice it was though he hadn't spoken at all.

* * *

Across the street, there was a sudden flurry of motion as a murder of crows were disturbed from their evening roost.

The murky surface of a puddle pooling in the concave alleyway was as flat as a mirror.

Then, lazy rolls of water breathed across it. Then, ripples. Then, waves that rapidly grew bigger and bigger into a spitting crescendo; a tempest in a grungy backstreet. It gave a soft creaking noise, like the rocking of a ship. It was a furiously muddy tornado. It hissed and spat and steamed its dirty, overzealous broth all over the alley walls.

In its ecclesial zenith, the waterspout gave birth to a girl. She lysed from the miasma, pale and blotchy face-first, like a newborn.

The water's afterbirth splattered all over the walls and caked the girl in brown sludge. Her hand flicked to her face and wiped a small window for her eyes.

They oscillated in their sockets rapidly as she took in her surrounds. She tilted her chin upwards, following the plastic guttering to the tiled roof of the three-story apartment complex. She flinched as a raindrop hit her face, streaking a clear path down the edge of her jaw. As homeostasis kicked in the girl shivered in her thin summer dress.

Just a few seconds ago- she was _sure_ of it- she had just jumped from a cliff. And unlike the heroine of a certain saga, she _had_ considered its sinister consequence.

For a minute she took the twisted contortions of stone and metal as the gates of the _abovelands,_ but dismissed the notion almost straight away. Her surrounds smelt terrible; cat's piss and food spices and a rat infestation (and _faintly_, the smell of sea-brine); she was surrounded by discarded flyers, empty bottles, bursting bags of a foul odour. The cast-off debris of a undoubtedly _human_ civilisation.

She forced herself to assess the situation logically.

_I don't know where I am. My parents are dead. And a monster... a monster is chasing me._

The girl looked over her shoulder, but the _thing_ that called itself her brother hadn't jumped off the cliff after her. The glance only revealed a dead end to the alley; a wall painted with some sort of artistic fluorescence. There was no sign of the waterspout, or indeed, a puddle. It had divulged all over its surrounds.

She pulled a strand of seaweed from her shoulder, the relief spilling into her chest as a breath she didn't realise she had been holding.

There was no space, no time for second-guessing her decision. The suicide note was the fall itself... the head-rush, the flailing arms, the encroaching midnight Aegean sea... and a clawing, despearte realisation that she _didn't want to die_. She would've let the monster have its way with her if it let her live at the end. She would do anything to remain alive. Honour is a faculty of those who have never had to _endure_.

_I have a second_ _chance_, the girl thought, ignorant of exactly how correct she was. _I _will_ endure._

With these buoyant thoughts in mind, the girl took her first steps in the curious new world.

* * *

**Author's note: **Hi there :) This is my first fanfiction - and the longest thing I've ever written. You'd be doing me a big favour by leaving a review and telling me what you think!

I just want to clarify the ages of the protagonists before the story progresses...

Apart from the story's premise, I try to stay with the cannon presented in the book, the guide, and Stephenie's FAQ (though at times they contradict each other). Unfortunately, this means Marcus is not an absurdly attractive forty-something, but a somewhat lankier 16-year-old boy. (The guide says two things regarding his age; he was turned before he was twenty and is the youngest of the Volturi coven. If Didyme's 17... Marcus is 16.) Afton (you'll meet him soon) is 24. Aro is 25, Caius is middle-aged (*sigh*) as per book cannon.

Happy reading!


	2. Huginn and Muninn

**EDIT: **I'm not too proud of this chapter. Bear with, I'm writing a clearer, cleaner version.

The tl;dr summary is thus: Agnes and Aubrey have a father. He's a bit out of it. Didyme is a human from ancient Greece. She's time-travelled from a specific moment in her timeline and she's in a bad way - coping with her twin brother's death, traumatised by meeting Aro whom she sees as a "monster". She only has vague memories of her life as a vampire - more a passing familiarity rather than anything concrete. She sees Marcus but she's almost run over trying to reach him. Instead she meets Aubrey and Agnes, and they invite her into their home. Aubrey can see people's memories, and Didyme fascinates him.

If you get that, you're doing well ;)

* * *

_O'er Mithgarth Huginn and Muninn both each day set forth to fly;_

_For Huginn I fear lest he come not home, but for Muninn my care is more._

- _Sayings of Grímnir_, The Poetic Edda

* * *

_Paris, 2010_

Behind the opulent parlour room was its antithesis: a shabby, run-down apartment not unusual for that arrondissement of Paris. Agnes sat at the table in a small kitchen, her right hand curled around a cup of steaming tea. Her other hand clutched_ L'Amoureux._ In her rush for the exit, she forgot to put it back.

Though she opted for her usual snobbish expression, the card trembled very slightly in her hand.

The room smelled of burnt raspberries and the radio crackled above the clang of dirty pots. Her father washed the dishes half-heartedly, like he did everything. Through the thick, smudged spectacle lenses his expression was one of mild bemusement. His finger tapped out a steady pace against the soapy copper pot.

"I made jam today," he said without turning round.

Agnes blew on the brown liquid. "We're going to be late to jazz band," she replied despite the fact there was still two hours until practice.

The man digested this information without surprise. "Do you need a note?"

"No." She took an experimental sip. "But you need to ring school."

The man glanced at the cuckoo clock above him. One hand was gold and the other silver; a present from his late father-in-law. "Why?"

"I don't know yet."

He nodded absently, having long accepted his daughter's clairvoyance. Despite his adherence to Catholicism, Mr. Lévi liked to give his children space to grow. He hadn't quite come to grips with the reality of raising two children on his own (let alone ones of their peculiar talents); his parental style, one might say, was _in absentia_.

He originally made the suggestion of their current business, believing best way to protect his children was to hide their disparity in plain sight. Bedeck it with gold and glitter and put it in the phonebook, _éclairer le passé et l'avenir de désembuer_, and people never looked twice.

Only when you strip away the beautiful carapace, you can see the bare bones of truth below.

"Aubrey needs to open the door," the girl said.

Aubrey lumbered down the narrow staircase and entered the kitchen a few seconds later. Like her, he changed out of his dress-clothes. The similarities ended there; Agnes wore a stripy purple thermo top over a vivid red tartan skirt, whereas he dressed in a simple pilling grey sweater and long black corduroy trousers. It was an unconscious display of their core desires; for Agnes, recognition and awe; for Aubrey, stability and safety.

Agnes slurped her tea. "I made you a cuppa."

"Thanks." He took a seat and touched the handle of his mug. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Better." She nodded to reinforce the lie.

Aubrey smiled weakly. "What do you think that fortune meant?"

She leaned forward. "You know that card... number thirteen? I _always_ leave that one out of the pack. The last time I checked, it was in my jewellery box. God knows how it got in there!"

Aubrey embarked upon a reply, but Agnes raised a hand to silence him. "You need to get the door."

"What, now?" He looked at her with alarm. "I didn't hear the bell."

She tipped back the cup to drain every drop. The cup returned to the table top with a smack. "_Now_!"

* * *

Didyme took a cautious step forward.

There was only one direction to take. A few paces away, the towering buildings opened to a wider street. Soft rain dripped from pipes set into the brick-and-mortar walls and a fine mist clung to her already bedraggled hair and clothes.

She paused briefly as a crepuscular ray of sunlight escaped the net of cumulus clouds, enshrouding her in warm light. The dewy pavement began to sparkle.

Didyme reached the mouth of the alleyway and nearly collided with a man and his dog. The dog was puppy-size, with a fuzzy white pelt. It yipped excitedly when it saw Didyme, paws scratching the pavement as it ran around its owner in glee. Though she doesn't understand the string of furious words spouting from the man as he disentangled himself, Didyme had to cover her mouth with her hand to trap a giggle inside.

There was a flicker of illumination above her head... and bright, wondrous light flooded through the street. Didyme looked around in amazement as the grey surrounds were brought to vivacious relief. She had never seen such an abundance of colours! On her left, a metal box about the dimensions of a tree stump was lit up in the colour of oxidised blood. A washing line hung overhead with the richest array of colours she'd ever seen. And across the street, cottages leaned against each other in a continuous row, each door painted a different colour; sunburst orange; fawn green; ochre red; hyacinth purple; sky blue...

Her panorama halted at the sky-blue door.

... A boy stood there. He was beautiful to behold, even as the shadows gave him a goatee and defined cheekbones where there were none. He looked slightly feline, with almond-shaped eyes and a sharp jawline. A halo of serpentine hair thrust its unruly black mass into the negative space. Hair that twisted like Medusa's snakes, and a black so dark it looked blue... he was mesmerising.

She... ah... _eventually_ noticed he was in the act of opening a metal contraption covered in a material that shone like seaweed. He stared at some point three meters to her left. She surreptitiously followed his line of sight, possessed by the strange and strong impulse of wanting to know what he was looking at.

A blank wall. He wasn't looking at anything in particular; he was lost in thought.

If anything this pushed Didyme's curiosity into compulsion, a strange sort of possessiveness. She _had _to know what had captured his attention as entirely as he had captured hers.

Her marionetted eyes were again pulled back to the subject of her thoughts... and her stomach flipped over.

His gaze had the opposite effect as Medusa's. Instead of turning her to stone, she felt like she was waking up. Her heart whirred in her chest, her mind buzzed with activity, and the idiosyncratic grin twitched to life. His eyes stripped her life away to her newborn years, she felt cleansed... raw... more alive than ever.

She was arrested both by the need to shiver with cold and itch the sudden rash of heat flushing through her body.

Without realising it she started to walk towards him. It was beyond conscious thought; she just had to be near him, or at least _nearer_.

She stepped out onto the road at a brisk pace. Suddenly, the blare of a horn-

turned around to face the oncoming monolith of metal, incapable of getting herself away in time-

two sturdy arms wrapped around her waist and jerked backwards-

sprawled on the side of the road, palms pushed against rough stone-

her saviour yelling in a high-pitched garble of foreign words- she managed to utter a few words back-

The man seemed to think that was confirmation of her insanity and stalked off, his hands raised in futile anger.

Didyme took a deep breath to steady the panicked fluttering in her chest (the uneasy knowledge she was again a hair's breadth from death) and gradually the world came back together again.

She glanced back to the sky-blue door, but the entranceway was empty. There was no sign of its occupant, but for the faint static in the air... and the stutter of her heart in response.

She didn't even know his name. But she was going to find out. She was going to find him again.

Didyme struck out for the sky-blue door.

* * *

Aubrey opened the door the very moment Didyme's hand reached the handle. For a moment, he saw nothing but a dirty, tired-looking teenage girl. Her hand hovered over the space where the knocker was, black eyebrows pushed together in consternation.

Then her past came to life.

Usually, he saw it as an extension of the person's clothing, though the past is different for everyone, being subjective to human perception. The visualisation helped his conscious mind process what he was experiencing, clothing being an arbitrary and somewhat limited telescope. Sometimes, he came across someone whose past varied from the normal trend; a person who wore their past like a constellation around them, each star combusting to flame under his gaze; a painter whose splattered palette rendered his memories with distinct tonal colours; a computer programmer whose lines of code ran right through her cognition, etc.

Everyone defines themselves in a slightly different way, and everyone has a different background.

Floating blank sheets of paper surrounded this girl.

They didn't stay inert; they fluttered, constantly falling in and out of view. She was the epicentre of an earthquake of paper.

They were white as snow, drifting around her in a peaceful flurry. Silent and empty.

Slowly... almost undetectably, her past began to seep as words onto the paper.

The words, dyslexic imitations of the Greek alphabet, crept onto the paper like shy children. They crawled around in inky black trains, now and again ducking out of his sight as the papers wavered around.

Her past was a sea of written words. Some pages were almost black with ink. Words crowded in, shuffled and pushed each other for space.

He recognised a line of French spiralling around her collarbone: "_O'er Mithgarth Huginn and Muninn both each day set forth to fly..."_

He spotted another curling around her elbow: "_Lucky guess..."_

As if in response to his gaze, the words started to arrange themselves on the pages, in haste toppling over, wavering angrily, shimmering... for a minute the papers stood still enough he could view the words properly... what he saw wasn't a verse, or any arrangement of words for him to read.

It was a picture. A moving, rippling picture made of words.

* * *

The same girl, (younger looking; perhaps twelve or so) blurry as the conglomerate of letters constantly rippled and shifted, gripped the hand of a child exactly the same height as her. He sported a similar homespun appearance; shoeless, mismatched clothes, a bob cut.

They were walking up a hill. In the background, Aubrey saw the hazy backdrop of a port town.

The French unfurled from her mouth like a banner, but it echoed through Aubrey's mind in a way mere words could never do. "What am I thinking?"

The boy gave her a sidelong glance, his grin mirroring hers. The veins on his hand popped out as he gripped hers tighter. "You're thinking about... the labyrinth."

"Lucky guess," she quipped, but her grin widened ever so slightly.

He laughed and shook his head. "And what am _I_ thinking?"

The girl turned to look at him, cocking her head to the side. "That's easy... a..." her gaze slid slightly to the left, over the boy's shoulder. "A ship!"

"No?" The boy frowned in confusion. "Not at all..."

"No... look! A ship is coming into the harbour! Maybe it's from Lycia! Maybe it's... maybe it's _Aro_!"

"I think Father's told you one too many stories about him," the boy said grumpily. "He isn't coming back, you know. Not for you. Not for anyone."

* * *

The image slowly reformed; the girl was now several years older. She leaned across a small stone partition, hands on hips. "_No! I said no!_"

"Your father..." a barrel-chested man started. Similarly, his voice had the sound of a barrel in motion, deep and rumbling and carrying an undertone of command. He stood on the opposite side of the low wall, but their chests were close enough to almost touch. He caught one of her hands in his. "If it's your father forbidding this match, then I have means of _persuasion_..."

She viperously twisted her hand free from his. "Father lets me make my own decisions," she snapped, the words cramped and bossy. "And he'd _never_ sell me to you... no matter how many pigs he'll get for it!"

The man's face folded into a sneer. "I've never heard of such a thing!"

The girl turned around; she wore a parlous smile. "You heard my answer. That is enough."

The words resolved around her as she hurried down a sandy garden path. She ran through a flock of hens, and she briefly disappeared in a squawking flurry of feathers.

Another person formed out of inky oblivion. He looked vastly different than before, but he was still the same boy. He was emaciated, hollow and tall as a scarecrow. In contrast to the girl, who seemed positively radiant, he was dishevelled and shrunken.

The boy leaned on a cane for support. "You're going to have to marry eventually, Di. You'll have to support yourself somehow."

"Don't say that!" The girl closed the distance between them much more rapidly. "You'll be married too one day, Lyco," she whispered angrily as she buried her face in his chest. "I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you."

One spindly hand reached around her, stroking her hair. "We both know those decisions aren't up to us, Didyme."

"I'm afraid I can't live without you," the girl said, the words fragmenting as they spiralled away from her mouth. "I'll never love anyone else. You've taken my whole heart!"

"I wish I could give it back," he began to say, but the words were interrupted by a bout of coughing. She seemed to understand anyway.

The girl slid around him, switching effortlessly from comforted to comforter. "Sorry, but I don't give refunds."

* * *

The world shifted again. It was jerky with motion as the girl sprinted down a stone corridor. The corridor opened in two separate directions, and she took the left. Aubrey realised it was a maze.

She burst out a final corridor... she made it to the exit. A gust of words ripped through the small, empty space, and out over the vast expanse of sea.

The boy was perched on the very edge of the cliff, reminiscent of an absurd bird. His cane lay beside him, a discarded and insubstantial line rendered with a single inky stroke. His head was tipped back as to absorb the greatest amount of sunlight.

"I thought you'd come," he said without turning around. "To say goodbye. I appreciate that."

"No. _No, no!_ Lyco, _you can't do this_!"

"Didyme..." the boy looked down at the indigo smear of the sea far below. "Do you remember Father's story?"

"Please don't do this," the girl whispered through broken words. Full stops and i dots slid down her face. "Don't leave me."

His eyes took in the distant, salt-streaked horizon. "It's a long way up, isn't it?"

He paused briefly, as if to appreciate the view. "I think I'd prefer to drown," he said bluntly. "Rather than burn... It's a quicker death." He turned his head slightly to the side, but didn't address her face-to-face. "I've never been strong like you. I'm tired all the time... in pain... and I've always been a coward. I only hope you understand that it's not really dying... Think of it as my _ascension_ into a different plane of being... I'm shedding this dying vessel and becoming something _purer_... I'm _transcending_, _moving through, going beyond._ Who knows what awaits me?"

"Don't be so selfish," she whispered heatedly. "You _can't_ do this... just think of Father! What you're about to do to him! He'll never smile again!"

"I knew you'd say that... I know all your thoughts." He shook his head sadly, turning again to the vast expanse of empty sea. "You're a part of me. My opposite... my other half. We're just sides of the same coin._ Thought and memory._" He smiled, and the inky wells under his eyes deepened further. "Stay happy, sister. You've always been more important."

_"I love you,"_ the girl warbled in desperation.

He met her eyes one last time. "I'll wait for you on the other side. I promise."

The boy slipped out her sight, falling like Icarus, with melted wings.

The words clouded across the image as she collapsed to the ground. Even after her figure broke apart into its constituent words, the eerie sound of broken sobbing and the tandem of waves crashing against the cliff reverberated through his mind. More sluggishly than before, the words resumed their meaningless movement across the paper. They had told him all they _wanted_ to say, and nothing more.

* * *

Aubrey tore his eyes away from her memories, focussing on her face instead.

She seemed vaguely familiar. Although that was not an unusual feeling for Aubrey. He often met the person in memory before he met them in reality.

"Hello," she said slowly, unaware of Aubrey's digression into her past. It took less than a few seconds, though to him it seemed much longer.

Aubrey realised she wasn't speaking French, yet he could understand her well enough. In the pages of her past, translations surfaced and disappeared like whales rising through the ocean. "Hello," Aubrey echoed. Somehow he could voice a translation perfectly. It was an aspect of his gift he'd never encountered before, but he took it in his stride. Let's face it, when you live with a fortune-teller you get involved in some pretty weird things. You just have to learn to accept them. "Can I help you?"

The girl smiled brightly, though it came across to Aubrey as artificial. "Yes, actually. I'm looking for someone."

"Ah." Aubrey felt strangely dislocated from reality; it was as if he was greeting an old friend... one who was treating him like a total stranger. "Who?"

The girl sighed. "I don't know his name. He has black hair? Was here about five minutes ago?"

"You're looking for your _brother_, my dear!" A saccharine-sweet voice called from behind Aubrey.

"What?" The girl's face crumpled into exhausted flummoximation. "I'm sorry, but I didn't understand a word of that."

Agnes's face floated over his shoulder. "Aubrey, look. She's obviously that man's sister."

Aubrey peered at the girl again. There was no mistaking her resemblance to the over-enthusiastic black-haired man. Once it was pointed out, he recognised shared features in the curved jaw, the thick marker-line eyebrows and the too-big forehead...

But he had just seen her brother jump off a cliff.

Agnes sighed placidly as she placed a hand on Aubrey's shoulder. "It's too bad we didn't catch his name."

_But she didn't ask for her brother... if she did... she would know his name._ And there was more to it than that; Aubrey just told the man that resembled her so strongly that his sister had died. He frowned, knowing he wasn't quite grasping the full story.

Agnes tittered as she noticed the mud crusting in the girl's hair, the tiny bruises and scrapes running down her arms, the purplish shadow grazing her left cheekbone. "He'll be back for you soon, I'm sure. You can wait inside and out of the rain if you like."

The girl smiled nervously, her hazel eyes meeting Aubrey's blue ones skittishly. "What she's saying?"

"Come in." Aubrey opened the door wider, and for once in his life drew himself out of a slouch.

Didyme wavered on the threshold, trying to recall exactly the emotion that brought her there. But the wild desperation had slipped away like a dream, the bizarre familiarity with a boy who was an absolute stranger. Through a cloud of exhaustion she struggled to remember exactly what he looked like, let alone why it was so urgent to be near him... and it looked like she wasn't going to learn his name any time soon.

Didyme wasn't going to deny the promise of hospitality. And right on cue, her tummy growled with hunger.

"We've got something for that," Aubrey said with a smile.

* * *

**Author's note:** Aidoann pointed out some tense/grammatical errors here. I'm hoping most of them have been corrected. Thanks, Aidoann :)

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! Your feedback is insightful and inspirational; I can't say how much I appreciate it.


	3. On the Agenda

**a·gen·da /ə****ˈ****jendə/**

Noun:

1. A list of items of business to be considered and discussed at a meeting.

2. (Political) an underlying, often ideological, plan or program.

* * *

_Paris, 2011_

A year passed. The parisian street filled with fog, sleet and rain and snow fast on its heels.

Didyme had her first christmas, her first new year, her first final year at school.

Spring erupted from the cast-aside drudgery of winter, petunias and daffodils breaking out of the gutters and cracks in the cobblestones to stretch towards the sun wantonly. The Lévi family took Didyme for a week on the _Côte d'Azur_, where the sun burned relentlessly on until even the concisest of weeds withered under its reign, and the only reprieve from the heat was the Mediterranean sea. Didyme breathed in the salt-steeped air, comforted by the knowledge that some things still stay the same. With Aubrey and Agnes to direct her days, there was no time for homesickness.

They reluctantly travelled back to Paris to eat strawberry sherbet ice-creams on the veranda. Didyme watched as the street turned into a western ghost town, minus the tumbleweed. But even the sun lost its hold over the world. Its rays grew mellow and the shadows stretched further across the pavement.

The melancholia of the autumn flood evoked a kind of longing in her. As the days grew shorter she dwelt on _the boy_ more and more, until he had filled every crevice in her day and occupied the allotted time for her dreams.

The leaves abscised from their trees like estranged teenagers from their parents. They scattered across the street drunkenly, pushed into the gravel by passing rubber soles and tires. The rain pattered down, whipping the leaves into a brown soufflé. The world trundled on.

* * *

Huddled inside a threadbare apartment, in the dim glow of a bare incandescent lightbulb, the three teenagers shared conspiring glances. The rain was almost like a fourth member in their group. It made an impatient noise against the window panes, cajoling and corralling for entry.

The trio sat at the dining table; its centrepiece was a copper radiator. It clicked as it warmed up.

"I have called this meeting to discuss a matter of great importance," the black-haired one said seriously. Her face was far from pretty, but even moulded into a stoic expression it possessed a hint of warmth not unlike the soon-to-be functional radiator.

The other girl tossed her long golden locks back over her shoulder. Agnes was beautiful in the classical way; doll-faced, curvy and diminutive, where her friend was all angles and far too tall. "Indeed of great importance," she conferred regally. "Aubrey, are you taking minutes?"

"Yes." The boy sighed, sinking lower in his chair. He too was traditionally handsome, though a touch too short and round-faced to be considered remarkably so. The biro cupped in his hand tapped a staccato rhythm against the faux wood table. Aubrey glowered at the empty page, in the pretence he felt a lot less enthusiastic than he actually was.

"You may proceed," Agnes said pompously.

"Thank you, chairperson," Didyme replied- if there was sarcasm in her voice it was well hidden by her accent. It seemed her grasp of the language preceded her ability to form it. "Everyone is present and accounted for, then?"

"Let me check." Agnes pretended to look around the room, checking their invisible compatriots off on her hands. Finally, she nodded, and turned to Didyme again. "There will be no need to take a roll call."

"I can't believe you two-" Aubrey began in protest, but was silenced by simultaneously harsh looks. Didyme hadn't yet mastered it; somehow, a frown looked out of place on her face.

"Thank you, Aubrey," Didyme reprimanded. "Now, onto today's agenda: as you know, next monday is a day we must plan for in advance. March 19th. Your birthday." She peeked around the room, looking for agreement in imaginary faces.

"Aubrey, are you taking notes?" His sister demanded crossly. "It won't be much of an event if we don't plan it properly."

The sixteen-year-old boy glared at her. "I don't get why we have to-"

Didyme cleared her throat, effectively cutting off his protests. "Now, as I've never celebrated a birthday, I decided to do some research." She flicked through the ring binder in front of her officiously. "Internationally, your birthday is shared by just one other celebration. This Italian city... _Volterra_?... honours its patron saint on the 19th. It's actually really cool... they dress up as vampires and gather in their town square and have a procession and wear red..." she stopped, grinning like an idiot. "But there's _one_ thing a totally badass, vampire-hunting Italian Saint doesn't have."

"An insane family," Aubrey muttered under his breath while duly noting _badass vampire_ as the first item on the minutes. He then embellished it by adding a smiling, fanged face.

"Me, of course!" Didyme exclaimed to Agnes, her face splitting into a radiant smile. Agnes couldn't help but smile back- no matter how stupid the joke, Didyme's happiness seemed infectious. "Which makes our celebration more awesome by 312%!"

"Ah, I think you mean _313_%," the boy interjected sarcastically. "I would know, being the secretary and all." He added _313_% as the next bullet point, next to _this number is as arbitrary as this meeting._

"How right you are, Aubrey!" Didyme nodded enthusiastically, to all appearances overjoyed he was taking some part in their game. He didn't know whether she was being ironic or not, but he would hope so. For her sanity. "Anyway, we don't have to worry too much. I think our celebration will be fantastic. As the treasurer of the Internal Birthday Resources Committee it's my responsibility to look after our budget... I think if we all contributed 30 Euros, we'll have just enough..."

The pearl-grey sunday morning wore on; the rain fizzled out; their father arrived home from church with four brown paper bags of _Pain au chocolate_, and a plastic carton heavy with golden late harvest apples grown in Limousin. He threw his purchases on the kitchen bench with a weary, contented sigh. The air in the room was suffused with warmth, and something else that he couldn't quite place. It put his mind at rest, soothed his bitterly aching joints and eased the heartache he still experienced. It gave him the patience to remain mute and indifferent.

He had a right to be suspicious of the most recent addition to their family. After all, she spoke not a lick of French when she arrived on their doorstep little under a year ago. As a contemporary English teacher, one would assume Théodore Lévi did not have the requisite knowledge to identify Ancient Greek. There was no way he could have known the strange, almost Spanish-like words she spoke belonged to a language that died out thousands of years ago.

But Theo was not a suspicious man. He let himself be guided by the maxims of _Faith,_ _Hope_ and_ Charity_ and placed his trust in his children. At least, that's what the twins liked to think; the alternative was less pleasant to consider; their father didn't really care who stayed in his house. Besides, she was much better at making jam than he was.

"I brought food," he announced to the peeling paint of the kitchen wall.

"Meeting adjourned?" Didyme leaned back in her chair executed a raised eyebrow perfectly.

"Adjourned." Agnes was already eyeing up the bags, attempting to assess through the paper which one was of a slightly bigger size, had the greatest surface covering of chocolate- the one she would claim for herself.

"I will never understand either of you," Aubrey sighed as he handed Didyme the refill page of minutes. She caught his eye and as their hands touched she briefly squeezed his wrist. "But let's not lose this, okay? We've got a good thing going here."

"I don't think I've ever thanked you," she said quietly.

"You're welcome," Agnes said loudly as she scraped her chair back and lobbed an apple towards her brother.

It hit him on the head, and they burst into laughter. Except for Aubrey, who rubbed the spot furiously.

* * *

Across the continent, and the Ligurian sea, Didyme's brother held an equally redundant meeting of his own. Unlike his companions, Aro delighted in the trivial, exacting nature of bureaucracy. Caius found it boring and distasteful- nothing more than the space-filler between crusades- and Marcus seemed not too interested in much at all, let alone politics.

Caius twitched with impatience. "How much longer is this going to take, Aro?"

"Not much longer, my dear brother," Aro cooed, spreading the parchments across the rich mahogany table. His caressed the words- his words- as tenderly as a mother stroked her babe's cheek. "Just a few more items."

He did not miss his brother's sigh of annoyance. Predictably, his mind would be turning to the castle's other occupations; his wife, whom he had not talked to since his arrival from South America three hours hence.

"So with our flagitious friend Joham attended to," Aro began in his airy wisp of a voice, "our attentions can return to other matters. I think we are in agreement- the threat of the Cullen family still looms over us, yes?"

Caius leaned forward, once more interested in the conversation. Marcus frowned... the only indication he was listening, or indeed, awake.

"Caius... you have busied yourself collecting information about these so-called 'half-immortal' children, which your thoughts have proven to be _very_ interesting. I wonder..." Aro marvelled at the possibilities; the potential to pass on his gift, or Alec's, or Marcus's- would surely increase the talent in their little coven unimaginably. It was such a shame dear Chelsea was a woman- otherwise he could have rid of her. She had become something of a nuisance of late. "We, of course, need to conduct experiments ourselves in order to determine these creatures really aren't a threat to our kind."

Marcus's frown deepened. How wonderful it was to see emotion on his face! "I'm opposed to what you're suggesting, Aro," he said lackadaisically. "Aren't our observations enough?"

"Dear brother," Aro chuckled, his filmy red eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "It would be no different from the experiments we conducted with immortal children. Surely you see the need for impartiality? In the true nature of science, we need to _control external factors_ in order to find the truth. Of course that wasn't possible in the case of dear Renesmee, or Nahuel and his sisters..." Aro briefly considered the table, the smile dying on his face. "I would never want the human mothers to suffer unnecessarily, of course. We will make sure they will have the best medical care the modern world is able to provide."

Marcus didn't believe his show of sympathy for a second, but it wasn't for him. For a moment, Aro truly felt pity for the women and their inevitable, horrific pregnancies. He _tsked_ sadly. "Are we all in agreement, then?"

"Yes," Caius hissed, beyond caring.

"No." Marcus gave his brother a dour look. How curious that today, of all the days in eternity, he seemed to regain a modicum of interest in these affairs.

"It's a yes from me," Aro said cheerfully, ticking the first item off his agenda with a punctual flourish of his pen. "Am I right to assume you've also done as I've asked of you, Marcus?"

Marcus slid the list of names towards Aro. "Based on reports, these were the most likely candidates for precognition."

"Excellent, excellent." Aro took the list from his brother and quickly read it through. His mind, its faculties not diminished by the millennia, memorised and categorised each name. "Ah, but you've made a mistake!"

"No, I'm sure-"

"See this name," Aro continued gleefully, indicating it with a tap of his pen, "Agnes Lévi. We've already assessed her as unsuitable. Last year- do you remember, brother?"

"Reports of her were extremely promising. Maybe we made some mistake..." Marcus trailed off, biting his lip. How charmingly animate he was today! Aro had almost forgotten his friend's plethora of facial quirks. What a strange creature he was... Aro knew of no other vampire so caught up in the pantomime of humanity. Until he met Carlisle, of course, though the golden-haired man broke _all_ the records in that regard.

"I remember that day clearly," Aro warbled in delight. "And I believe she predicted your imminent romance? Tell me, have any of the girls in Volterra caught your eye?"

Marcus's face satisfyingly returned to its normal blank slate. Across from him, Caius grinned with mirth. The child had predicted the one thing there was not a chance of happening... unless, of course, sweet Didyme herself rose from the dead. And the chance of _that_ happening was so low that, why, it was even a poor premise for a story.

Aro giggled, laying a hand on his friend's suited elbow. "I'm just teasing you, my dear. Yes, I think we can safely say any testaments to that girl's ability are false." Aro returned his attention once again to the list- one of those names, surely, would bear fruit. He briefly pictured the anonymous clairvoyant in his guard- the jewel of his collection. He would bestow them with unimaginable luxury, while greedily feasting on their mind's ambrosia. Already he had a vicarious taste of it- but as long as young Alice obstinately refused a place in the Volturi, then he would simply have to find one to replace her. "I'll pass this this list onto Demetri. Or perhaps Santiago, or Felix... but Jane would be unsuitable for the task."

After the disastrous 'Victoria Incident', Aro's trust of little Jane had been lost. She clearly had demonstrated incompetence (and really, she was only a child, prone to making rash decisions- his confidence in her had been misplaced in the first place). A few decades shut up in the castle would be punishment enough, and perhaps Jane would be forced to learn patience and temperance in her confinement. It was an amusing prospect.

"Actually," Marcus interrupted, "I'd like to go."

Aro's thoughts abruptly snapped to the present. Beside him, Caius didn't bother to conceal the surprise on his face. Nothing of the sort had happened- well, forever. Aro hastily tried to assemble a response, his mind thrown into chaos as if a sudden light had been switched on in a dark room, temporarily blinding its inhabitants. "My dear brother... I don't think that's the best idea..."

"Afton has agreed to accompany me," Marcus said in a disturbingly emotional manner. Did Aro detect _excitement_ in his voice? Surely not... it was impossible. "We'd only need a year or so to cover all the names on the list. And my judgement would be better than Santiago's or Demetri's-"

"Enough of this!" Aro jumped to his feet, quite stricken with despair. What had happened with his perfect automaton? It was terrible! "I'm afraid I can't trust you on your own."

Marcus looked up at his brother earnestly. "Aro, please. I've thought about this... this is what I _want_. It will only be for a year... Caius has had five, six times that... and you've managed without him."

"Yes, but..." Aro sighed and sunk down in his chair. Caius was replaceable; his presence was even a hinderance in the period of peace. He lacked Aro's foresight, or Marcus's moderation, or even the grace of a silver tongue. Caius was only useful in times of war. But Aro _needed_ Marcus, now more than ever. Without him, Chelsea's gift would be running blind. "I can't even trust _matches_ in your room," he eventually sputtered exasperatedly. "Because you would indadvertedly find a way to _kill yourself_ with them. And you expect... an _entire_ year?... is quite out of the question. You must understand... for the sake of your _health_, Marcus."

"That's why I want to go!" (His voice warranted an exclamation mark; it was simply shocking) "It would be good for my health to get away from here for a change... to take a... a _vacation_-"

"We never stay in Volterra for too long," Aro argued. "There's always a new coven to greet, old acquaintances to rekindle..." Too late, he registered the note in Marcus's voice, and finally understood the subtext. Marcus didn't want to get away from Volterra; he wanted a break from _Aro_. He couldn't help but feel a little wounded.

"You have my vote, Marcus," Caius said, smiling banally. "You know what? I think fresh air might do you good. It's ridiculous to keep you here to stew in your own misery."

"Thank you, Caius," Aro said through his teeth. "At least let me know the source of this... unexpected development, brother."

Marcus leaned forward and intertwined his fingers with his brother's outstretched hand; after the fiery tribulation of Caius's mind, Marcus's was a pool of cold water. It was a lone bastion of peace in the tormented, stunted, twisted forest of minds that Volterra was infamous for. Its characteristic flavour of passivity was comparable to a cushy sofa in a world of tack-hard chairs.

It was a mind he'd gladly return to again and again.

Which is why he chose it in the first place, of course.

He was quite regretful Marcus had found a mate in his sister; Aro had been hoping, somewhat foolishly, that _he_ would be the preferable candidate.

Aro stifled the urge to sigh with bliss as he sifted through centuries to find the thoughts he desired. And he found it, floating disconnected through the phantasmagoria.

_... I shook the rain droplets from my umbrella vigorously, intent on expelling every last drop. I couldn't pretend the girl's prediction had shaken me; maybe that was the reason why..._

_... There was some commotion with a yipping dog across the street. I looked up, trying to locate the source of the disturbance. I saw nothing but the empty street. My eyes ghosted across the opposite sidewalk... nothing. After millennia of nothing, I didn't even register the disappointment. Really, what was I expecting?..._

_...Then I saw... no..._

_[Incomprehensible thoughts]_

_... and I looked up again, and she was gone. Vanished, like a spectre into the aether. Surely I had finally... lost my mind... there was no way... but she... she_ blushed...

Aro pushed further through his thoughts, frustrated. That was it? That was all Marcus had to go on; the questionable appearance of someone whose algedonic memory had haunted him for the better part of three thousand years? But then, Aro found another gem:

_... It was strange... the bonds of loyalty trapping me here, to this _abhorrent_ castle... seemed to be loosening. Not letting go, exactly, just lessening enough to give me the willpower to..._

Aro let go of his brother's hand, the name on his mind draining him of his good humour. _Chelsea_. She was always a wild card, but now she simply stepped too far. At least he understood why Marcus was acting spectacularly out of character; an alinement of circumstances, a twist of fate- his own mind playing tricks; a beckoning international project; the loosening of loyalty to Volterra- alone, these factors would not warrant such an action, but together they were more than enough.

"Do you see, brother?" Marcus tipped his head to the side, his expression full of longing. How awful it was to see emotion on his face! "Speak to Afton, if you wish. He understands the situation perfectly well. It's his job to protect me... from myself, or..." his words died on his lips as he continued to stare at his brother with a silent plea. It was no matter; an unspoken vote had been cast... in Marcus's favour.

Aro didn't let his fury- his bewilderment- his wariness- seep into his voice. What a horrid mess he was in. He pinched his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, the final confirmation to Marcus of his victory. "I cannot argue against you, brother. But take my counsel, and do not go. It will only cause you unnecessary pain. We shall reconvene later today... hopefully you will have reconsidered, my dear."

What an abysmal end to just another humdrum meeting! To think how quickly it spiralled out of control... away from his predetermined plan... unsettled Aro. He didn't like it when people made decisions counter to his own. Aro was obsessed with having the world just so.

He remained still for quite some time. Caius and Marcus had long since disappeared; the sunday morning waned into evening.

Finally, Aro rose from his seat, intent on one purpose.

He needed to converse with Chelsea. _Urgently_.

* * *

**Author's note:** Even if you're casually skim reading, I'd really appreciate the opportunity to know what you think! Remember, I can't read your mind. Please review :)


	4. The Lost Boys

**Author's note:** Hey guys, I'm writing up here this time to **warn** you- there is **swearing** in this chapter. For any yung'uns reading this, you have been warned. I usually endeavour to keep bad language at a minimum, but sometimes it can't be avoided.

**Oh, and on another note: **I'd like to thank you lovely reviewers, all your advice/criticism/support is awesome :)

_"Sleep all day. Party all night. Never grow old. Never die. It's fun to be a vampire._"

-_The Lost Boys (1987)_

* * *

_Volterra, 2011_

For as long as the Volturi have had meetings, their wives have occupied the cloistered space in the room above, eavesdropping. They were far too proud to even entertain the thought of meddling in their husbands' affairs; instead, they tentatively listened, and bickered amongst themselves. Due to the size of the room, they were locked together like blocks in a game of _Tetris_, though this modern analogy was beyond either of the ancients' comprehension. It had been worse when they were joined by the lanky Didyme, especially as her presence seemed to take up twice the space her lithe, toothpick body needed.

The rumbling voices squeezed through the tiniest of cracks in the stone floor and skittishly reverberated through the small closet. Sulpicia tired to catch distinct words, but they slipped away rebelliously; she was only left with the tenor of the conversation. She could hear the idiosyncrasies in each of the voices- Caius's low growl, Aro's effeminate squeak, and Marcus's slightly fuzzy adolescent voice somewhere between the two in pitch. It objectively amused her how well their respective personalities seeped through everything, even their voices.

Athenodora had the better hearing of the two, so Sulpicia relied on her friend's fleeting facial expressions as a poor conduit to the conversation. The tiny crow's feet furrowed at the corners of Athenodora's eyes; a tight frown surfaced and disappeared on her lips. Surprise, like a pool of colour, bloomed in her eyes. Concern narrowed her features, as anger did; the tiny flaps on her nostrils flared in disapproval. Sulpicia's elbow poked her in the stomach and her breath was a whisper against Athenodora's hair. She dug her fingernails into her friend's arm, leaving white crescents of her visceral tension. "What are they saying?"

Letting out a stiff sigh of annoyance, Athenodora shifted her arm slightly. It was the only indication harm had been inflicted, although Sulpicia's pinches were strong enough to cut through bone. They bumped hips, unavoidable in the limited dimensions of the room. Familiarity drained the situation of any awkwardness. Their friendship was well-worn in, riddled with as many little quirks as a pair of lovers' was; sometimes it almost took on a life of its own.

"I can't hear properly if you keep asking that," Athenodora said by way of gruff rebuttal. Sulpicia sighed, the noise escaping through the cage of her teeth with undue sibilance.

With one hand, she impatiently traced the spangled pattern of scars in Athenodora's arm, following it until the peach sundress covered her skin. They were teethmarks; breadcrumbs in a perverse, carnal version of _Hansel and Gretel. _

Athenodora hissed in pain as Sulpicia pressed a fingertip to the most prominent scar; a double row of puncture marks left by two sets of teeth. It was about a handspan in size and hot to the touch, as her body combated the vile poison, millennia after the wound was inflicted. Bursts of purple ran in rivulets under the skin nearest to the wound, mapping out her veins in blood the colour of overripe grapes. Sulpicia could only imagine the creature that had carved its stubborn obituary in the flesh of Athenodora's upper arm; but even imagination faltered at _two rows of teeth_, punched industriously through marbled skin. The bite marks were the runes of an ancient, chaotic world; a time filled with supernatural creatures of designs so wicked they were the sole property of children's nightmares. But the vestiges of their presence, their death-throe screams and howls, could not be erased from Athenodora's arm.

Suddenly, her friend flinched in response to something Sulpicia could _almost_ hear. Her eyes, black as a penumbra, found Sulpicia's almost instinctively. _Marcus_, Athenodora mouthed. Once, they were afraid to raise their voices for the impropriety of discovery; but even though that was in the past the stalwart mannerism remained.

_What? _

_Leaving. _

_No, surely not. _

_It's already decided. _

_Aro wouldn't be so stupid. How? _

Athenodora shrugged. _They voted, I think. _

It took her a fraction of a second to work out what that meant. Sulpicia shrieked under her breath, a noise of modulated yet uncontrollable rage. _You bitch! _

Sulpicia launched herself across the millimetres of space separating them, intent on inflicting the worst pain possible upon her closest (literally and figuratively) friend. Surprise was quickly surpassed by instinct; Athenodora's reaction was shaped by experience. Her hands formed manacles around Sulpicia's wrists as she twisted them to unnatural angles. There was no pleasure derived from causing her pain; Athenodora's actions were brutal, but indifferent. Necessary.

Athenodora felt Sulpicia's erratic, osmotic breathing across her bare skin, and did not flinch away from her piercing gaze. Sulpicia had never been able to contain her temperament; but it always blew itself out quickly. Her eyes held a glut of madness.

"It's not my fault," Athenodora said in a soothing voice at the same time as she distorted Sulpicia's limbs further, eliciting a sharp cry of pain (and just a tiny bit of pleasure, as Sulpicia's mind was want to do; spinning away into a dizzy masochistic fantasy). "Caius's vote is his own."

"Like he gives a fuck about Marcus," Sulpicia said harshly, in her chiming, piquant voice. "If it weren't for you, and your need to play _Mother Hen_ to moonstruck boys, this never would have happened."

Athenodora did not react to the jibe. Her affection for Marcus was no secret. Unfortunately, he bore physical similarity to her long-dead youngest son; she felt a modicum of maternal protectiveness towards him. Although she liked to pretend otherwise, she remembered all five of her children long after time ground their bones to dust. "Charmion," she hissed, "will pervade, as always."

_"You idiot!" _Sulpicia cried, another spasm of transient madness racking through her body. Athenodora managed to keep control of the woman's bucking limbs. _"In case you haven't noticed, _Chelsea's gift has become shaky of late. She's besotted by that Afton boy; she'll do anything he says. If he wants, for example, his friend's ties of loyalty to be loosened, Chelsea will comply _without hesitation_."

"Marcus has a friend?" Athenodora smiled tentatively, though her gentleness only provoked Sulpicia's discontent further. Marcus was antisocial at best; he was only an observer in the invisible world of relationships. Actually forming bonds himself was a feat beyond his capabilities. "That's wonderful!"

Sulpicia sighed in annoyance as she shucked off her friend's arduous grip. Her wrists ached with pain in the ghostly cracks running across her porcelain skin. "You're completely incompetent."

_And you were a hair's breadth from killing me; which is the lesser evil? _Athenodora thought convivially.

The pair fell still; one fuming, the other beaming. Silence as heady as smoke seeped up from the room below- the meeting had finished.

In a synchronicity only achieved after several millennia of practice, they ghosted out of the closest, linked at the elbow. Neither of their expressions betrayed anything but mild bafflement, as if they weren't quite certain how they wound up in the handkerchief-sized room in the first place. To all appearances, they were nothing but the closest of friends; sisters.

Athenodora briskly ironed out the crinkled in her sundress. Her fingers moved to rearrange her hair with crisp little flicks and tugs. She radiated happiness, or smugness- the distinction between the two emotions blurred by maternal affection, and the expectation of an imminent reunion. The promise of Caius hung a sappy smile across her warrior's face, entirely out of place amongst the wrinkles and scars that otherwise defined her. By the time she returned to their shared room, the facade of indifference would be in place, as if she didn't really care if he returned or not. Aloof and unruffled, unchanged by the void of time and distance that had separated them. Invulnerable.

Sulpicia's rage settled into the steely calm after a tempest. And she plotted, silently, viciously, the half-realities half-dreams crackling with a fricative urgency as they tumbled through her head. Forgiveness did not come easily to her, and Athenodora's betrayal (or what amounted to one, anyway) will be ingrained in her hippocampus as indelibly as any scar made by a monster's maw.

It was tempered with the knowledge (though she was far too proud to admit it) she will have no such satisfying reunion.

She will have to wait until Aro is in the mood for toying with her.

"Bye," Athenodora said unapologetically. She knew Sulpicia too well to feel pity.

* * *

Marcus felt _change_, right down to the bone. He tried to grasp the feeling with poetry, but it was too visceral, too fleeting, to capture in a cage of words.

It was a little like waking up.

* * *

The boy's room was completely blank. It reminded Afton of a hospital, bordering on utilitarian in its plainness. It contained exactly one desk, two chairs, and a pot plant. (The pot plant was dead, probably starved of water from the first instance it was bought. Its brown, desiccated leaves occasionally fell off and fluttered through the room like muddied snow.) There was a neat shelf of books behind the desk; technical tomes filled with diagrams and science and bleak truths; not a single word of imagination to nourish the soul. If vampires actually _had _souls; the jury was still out on that one. From Afton's experience of Volterra it was a rather dubious claim.

Afton had to make do with speech, and he never had a silver tongue. "Ready to go, mate?"

The agerasian boy looked up from whatever he was writing- scholarly, probably- industrious notes on Anthropogenic Global Warming or something equally boring, penned in a busy, cramped hand that made words look like bustling school children, centipedes, extispicies.

"Have you said goodbye?" Marcus said blankly. Afton didn't know Marcus well enough to differentiate the spark of life in his dead gaze; it was all the same to him.

"Chelsea's angry with me, bugger if I know why. I tried to say goodbye, and she threw a vase at me…" Afton felt like he had said too much, too absorbed in Marcus's eyes to be reticent in his admissions. They were the fathomless black of the deep, benthic ocean, where the grittiest of organisms on Earth obstinately clung to existence. Afton felt oddly flustered, shy, tentative. It was a little overwhelming.

"It's complicated," Marcus agreed. "There are aspects of your relationship best worked out on your own."

"Yeah. Exactly," Afton echoed, though he wasn't really listening. Marcus tipped his head slightly to the side, and the shadow cast by the rise of his nose stretched over his lips. Afton swallowed instinctively, careful as a snake charmer, digging his bony hands deep into the pockets of his trench coat. He didn't understand the tide of emotion that raced through him, the too-vivd, too-intense asperity of vampirism he hadn't quite adjusted to yet, two years after his transformation.

Marcus sighed and shook his head infinitesimally, just a fraction too small for Afton to notice. "Then there's no point in lingering."

* * *

Marcus was... melodramatic, a tendency only exacerbated by time.

And of course, _lingering _was exactly what Marcus did best. In the cold, stark place of his mind, the territory of the past was just as real as the present. He scribbled down whatever occupied the vassal of his thoughts, snatching at sanity and lost things alike- he knew he couldn't have both. In the most clichéd manner possible, her name throbbed through him like a heartbeat (_Didyme Didyme Didyme), _and the lost things always won.

He felt a strange affinity for Afton, his commissary; he too was _doomed_ to a life of permanent misery. His unexpressed sexual orientation will always be smothered by Chelsea's libidinous curves; when she finally figures out the reason for Afton's withdrawn embraces she will undoubtedly bind him to her anyway. Already, Afton's company was tinged with desperation, a sparrow struggling to escape the cat's paws. Chelsea always had her heart's desire, and she was not above taking it by force.

The paper under his fingers described a figure running towards him- her face impossibly flooded with ruddy colour- her hair a tangle- her eyes steadfastly gold-flecked green, like daffodils in a meadow- and her bonds raw and weeping at the edges, freshly ripped things that were echoes of his own- a figure that vanished, its presence a vague adumbration of hope and longing and _lingering_.

_If only you were real_, his pen told the paper underneath it. (Marcus was earnest, at least.)

He exchanged a few words with Afton- both, for their own reasons, desperate to leave the castle. Neither particularly cared about Aro's list of fortune-tellers, though of course that was the purpose of their year-long expedition.

Marcus couldn't bring himself to crumple the paper up and throw it away, so he tucked it into _The Solar System: An Observer's Guide_, entombing it with facts, knowledge, _reality_.

A practice in futility. In his mind the nymph still ran towards him and disappeared without a trace. How could someone vanish so quickly?

Immortals entered the abyss of death with a choking split second on the precipice. It allowed no time for grieving, crying, galvanising oneself against the inevitable. As a nomad, he felt the bonds to his parents and siblings flicker and dim away as their lives waned- slowly, but surely, spurned on by failing minds and receding memories. Although the feeling was horrible, it was somehow manageable; it bled the shock away from the moment of death.

He remembered returning to the farming village where his family lived, fifty years after he had left it, to hold the hand of his little sister as she succumbed to sickness and old age. She still recognised him; they were bound in blood- the bonds that ran deepest through the body, like lava under the Earth's crust. She thought he was a psychopomp- her beloved older brother that fell in battle, waiting for her own life to eclipse to escort her to a better place.

The thought gave her peace, so who was he to tell her otherwise? In a way, he was.

It was so different from the brutal rending of life taken too quickly, too early, without warning. Their bond slowly faded away with the soft, whispering _wub-ub_ of her heart; she died with a peaceful smile. His last remaining sibling. Just like that, he was alone in the world. Bound to no-one.

Odd how his life had almost turned full circle.

Afton was too nervous to take Marcus's hand, and he did not offer his own. They escaped into the night sky without fanfare. After thirty-one centuries, Marcus finally managed to leave Volterra.

One way or another, he had no intention of returning.

* * *

It started with the shattering of a vase. It crashed against the closed door, breaking instantly. The shards skidded across the floor in a great tide, halting only to lap at her feet. Chelsea was startled how readily it came apart- it was, after all, an antique. Bonafide Ancient Greek pottery. If anything, historical importance should have kept it together. But now it was little better than glazed mud- just another little bit of history succumbed to time.

She still felt angry, though. Infuriated, even.

The impulse to destroy another little piece of her material kingdom was impossible to resist. She seized the object nearest to her- a small coffee table expertly crafted from bone, a pattern of fleur-de-lis ornately carved into its wishbone legs. A table unique in its crafting; she snapped it in two. The sound was similar to the fracturing of human limbs- probably because that was what it was made from.

It's just that- out of all the _jerks_ in the world- she had to fall for the biggest one. Who _leaves_ their true love, their soul mate, the one they were destined for, etc, a mere _two years _after they met?

The first strangled sob slid through her lips. She blindly prised apart a pearl necklace and threw the pieces against opposite walls. A shower of pearls rained down and joined their terracotta companions on the ground.

She waited three thousand years for him.

And he repaid her by _leaving. _Ungrateful bastard.

She destroyed with relentless fury until her anger was painted into the walls. She thought it would make her feel better, but it didn't. Helplessness, previously hidden behind luxurious drapes, masterpieces of art and a lavish wardrobe, shed its skin and reared up uglily inside her. The anger abated, sucked away by abeyance.

Her room of precious things was torn asunder. Barely a bracelet had escaped the maelstrom.

Chelsea didn't feel guilty. Instead, she felt empty. Tearing up her life made her realise how little she invested in it any more- she only felt meaning when the little mouse in a grey waistcoat smiled at her. Afton was very much a product of the twenty-first century: odd, but charming in its own way. His british accent, penchant for _National Geographic_ and _Time_ magazines (magazines that smelt like him; or maybe he smelt like magazines- the lovely smell of new books), adoration for musicals featuring singing men in white masks and black capes or women dressed as witches with painted-on green skin, the constant need to apologise for things he had no control over, the way he reverently sung 'Penny Lane' in the shower, his gentleness with animals, and his overwhelming _tenderness_ were the things she fell in love with.

_This thing belongs in a Halloween party, _he said one day as his translucent fingers undid the latch on her black cloak.

_What's wrong with that Marcus fellow? _He whispered as they curled up together in her boudoir. _He seems kinda down most of the time. _

_Did you ever meet Jesus? Since you were alive, you know, back then… _

Gods, she loved him so much it hurt. Afton, her white knight, her little grey mouse, her lost boy. But no matter what she did, he seemed reluctant to love her back. She could always _make _him love her, of course, but only as a last resort. Seeing the promise of something unwarranted but absolutely _true_ in his eyes- love like a sunrise- was irresistible to a hopeless romantic such as herself. The widespread belief Chelsea was a heartless, manipulative wretch- it would break her heart to see that come true. There was something baseless in twisting her own mate's affection, and she hadn't quite descended to that moral nadir.

Aro found her, seconds or minutes or hours later, knees-to-chin in the corner of her destroyed room. A neat stack of magazines was clutched desperately to her heart, and sobs wracked through her body as she gingerly stroked them.

He didn't pretend to understand. Instead, she stood up- the magazines still folded around her bosom- and barrelled towards him. The remains of her bedroom crunched underfoot as she ran. The magazines dropped, one by one, from her grasp, their pages bruised by the hourglass of her body. She swept Aro up into a desperate hug, entwining her hands through his, pressing her collarbone to his shoulder, planting butterfly kisses against his cheek. "You won't leave me, will you?"

"Ah- no," the flummoxed man said, rapidly reconsidering his role as disciplinary enforcer. "Oh, my dear," he muttered softly under his breath, "I am truly sorry for the pain I have caused you."

Chelsea laughed with surprise against his neck. "Aro, you've done nothing wrong."

"But I have," he urged as he wholeheartedly returned her embrace, "It was I that asked dear Afton- rather thoughtlessly, I'm afraid- to run a little errand for me. He had little room to disobey. So, you see, your current predicament is of my own construct."

"Oh- I didn't know that," she whispered, her gaze dipping to the floor. "Why doesn't he love me?"

Aro stroked the forelock from her brow with a slow caress, while his other hand was still firmly clamped to hers. She breathed in his comforting, ebullient-sunshine-smell, and in that moment felt perfectly safe.

"_Of course _he loves you, Chelsea. You're simply sumptuous," he said, making her giggle. "It's just, well, men of this era are a little… reserved. Volterra can be too much for any newcomer- you just need to give him time. Trust me, dear, I'm an honest man; _he loves you_."

She nodded, and her hair scratched his chin. She smiled weakly as something deflated inside her. "You're right, Aro," she sighed. "I've been stupid, haven't I?"

"Love can make us all act a bit strange," he demurred, his thumb skating across her knuckles. "But you've caused me a bit of trouble recently, I must admit."

"Sorry," she said shakily. "I haven't been paying attention."

"No need to apologise. I completely understand."

"You always do."

"It comes with the territory, darling."

"I sort of broke my bedroom," she confessed, stepping away from Aro and peeking around as if for the first time.

"You need a distraction." He didn't smile; the destruction of a bedroom usually carried a more sexual connotation. Chelsea's continual innocence of such goings-on was a little jarring. Aro's gaze swept through the room like a broom, sweeping away her insecurities, leaving only the physical evidence of their presence in its wake. "I _think_ I might just know what it is. You like children, do you not?"

"Yes," she said slowly.

"Let's turn your room into a nursery- a perfect little home for some soon-to-be additions to our family. How does that sound?"

Chelsea shook her head in bewilderment. "Children, Aro?"

"Hybrid children. Our latest experiment." He cocked his head to the side, eyes questing for approval in hers.

His words sank in slowly. _Children_. She smiled uncertainly. "I suppose that's alright."

"I see you need time to consider; I'll leave you in peace." He nodded, a slow, self-confident smile blooming across his face. He veered through the broken room with ease, his ghost's tread barely making a sound on the stone floor. At the doorway, he paused, and delivered her a look simultaneously ice-cold and inscrutable. "And, Chelsea, when Marcus returns from his little mission- you _must_ rebind him to the Volturi. Is that understood?"

"Sure," she said. "I mean, yes. Master."

"Such a shame about the vase," he said more fondly, the terrifying look of coldness banished from his black gaze. It was gone as soon as it came; probably just a trick of the light. He nodded at the pieces littering the floor. "It always was my favourite."


	5. Le Bateleur

_When **Le Bateleur (the Magician)** appears in a spread… the message is to tap into one's full potential rather than hold back, especially when there is a need to transform… There are choices and directions to take. _

_The card can mean that a manipulator is floating around… He may be a beneficent guide, but he does not necessarily have our best interests in mind… _

_Practicality — Energy — Creativity — Movement_

(Adapted from the Wikipedia article, _The Magician (Tarot card)_)

* * *

_2011, Paris_

The fifteenth of March was a dark and stormy night in the city of Paris. The air was tinged with electricity; it was the sort of weather in which anything could happen.

Deep in the bowels of the city, in catacombs unopened by humans for centuries, the last denizens of the French Coven lurked in darkness and noticed the change.

Those humans with a keener sense of zeitgeist hurried home slightly faster, spent a little more time around their housemates, and were a little more afraid when the lights turned out.

Though others still were oblivious. A school jazz band played on, its boisterous music spilling onto the quiet streets, staining the pavement brass. A particularly loud trumpet wailed off-key.

Afton scurried past the school hall with barely a raised eyebrow to the musical talent, which unlike the volume, was lacking. He was in danger of falling behind his friend. Marcus was setting a very brisk pace- almost running through the city streets- barely containing his vampiric speed. Afton could only hope he knew where he was going- the darkness stole away his own sense of direction. In the lack of light, the buildings made a sinister decoupage and any obstruction on the sidewalk- fountains, phone booths, statues- was a hideous monster waiting to pounce.

Afton had to be the only vampire in history scared of the dark. It reminded him of his past life; the days at boarding school, a boy called Neville. A golden-haired adonis, Neville's beauty gave him a free pass to do whatever he wanted- with whomever he wanted. He tormented Afton- his antithesis, being about as noticeable as the wallpaper- with the devotion of a lover. Afton was a naturally shy, socially inept adolescent, but Neville made him wish he was invisible. His most egregious acts were committed in darkness.

His phone buzzed, forcing him to slow down. It'd be another text from Chelsea, but he couldn't risk not replying. She sounded scarier in text than she did in person; all her missiles where verbal.

In a last ditch effort, Afton called Marcus's name. But the boy had disappeared entirely.

He gave up and decided to retreat into a nearby alleyway to check his messages. Even the Parisian underbelly was pretty, despite the horrible smell of trash reeking the gutters and the overfilling bins. The slime-slicked facades and rusting chain-linked fence didn't shy away from dereliction- they wore it proudly, as battle scars against time and abandonment.

He flipped open his cellphone, read the message, and skated his fingers over a reply. He hated how sarcastic and unapologetic the pixelated words made him sound: _i'm so sorry, a million times sorry! can u fix the vase w superglue, or is it damaged 4 good? _But he sent it off anyway, with a sinking feeling that even a perfect apology wouldn't be enough for Chelsea. Because actions spoke louder than words; he was still in Paris with Marcus.

"There you are," a voice said, its tone characteristically devoid of relief. Or any emotion. "She's forgiven you already?"

Afton peeled his eyes from the glowing screen, and was unsurprised by the boy standing before him. His clown's wig of curly black hair was backlit by the streetlights; in the darkness, his expression held traces of rapidly disintegrating curiosity. "Well, she's texting me. That's got to something, right?"

"Right," Marcus echoed, and unexpectedly he cracked into a grin, the whites of his teeth flashing like cat's eyes. "She still hates me for something I said over _three thousand _years ago. So good luck with that!"

"Shut up," Afton mumbled, slightly embarrassed at the implied history between Marcus and Chelsea. He wasn't so much interested in the nature of it. But it highlighted the huge gulf of time that lay between them- he was intensely aware of how isolating it was. "What did you say?"

Marcus shook his head. "Doesn't matter." He looked down at his collared shirt, finding an invisible speck of dust on the front tail. "You asked her to break my ties, didn't you."

His sentence fell flat at the inflection: a statement, rather than a question. It left no space for vacillation. "Yeah, I did."

"Why?"

_Because I love you_, he thought- and then was shocked into silence by the words. They came so readily. _I love you_.

His phone buzzed again, and with relief he banished the thought as easily as it came. Chelsea had replied: _No, it's shattered irreparably. It doesn't matter, Afton, it's only a vase. Worse things can be broken. Aro told me about your mission- I'm forgiving you, okay? Don't you dare sound surprised! _

"Because I thought it could help you," Afton said eventually, and the improvised reason was equally true. "With whatever you're going through."

"I'm not going through anything," Marcus replied in the bat of an eye.

"Yeah, you are. Maybe you haven't noticed, mate, but you're sort of depressed a lot."

"I know that," Marcus said with a twisted smile. "I'm not going _through _anything. I've arrived. This is me. This will always be me."

"Blimey- that bad?"

The boy nodded, and there was something like pity in the fold of his spider's leg eyebrows.

Afton felt another vertiginous black hole open up in the conversation. He sensed it would always be like that with Marcus- time slid out of focus around him. The past was just as tangible- or equally intangible- as the present. Afton resisted the urge to shake him, if only to see if he was so empty the memories rattled around inside him. Or just touch him in some way. He needed to confirm the black-haired boy was _real_, not an aggregate of moments slipping away into the nebulous of time.

His acute unrequited love was that of a familiar for his magician. Always wanting to touch but not quite able to bring himself to do it.

Too afraid of the dark.

* * *

With the air of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Didyme withdrew the chocolate gateaux from a battlefield of flour and milk and grated chocolate. An upbeat song slid from the belly of the battered radio- she hadn't learned all the words, but she could hum along quite well- the tune, if not the French, was easy to pick up. "_J'attends l'amour," _the singer crooned in a burst of static, and Didyme wondered _why_ she waited so long for love. It seemed like the singer wanted some sort of neo-platonic ideal of love, not its pedestrian relative- love that was firmly grounded in reality. In that case, she had certainly _a long _time to wait.

And there she went again, dissecting a pop song with the kind of disdain that hid a desperate yearning. She abruptly remembered the boy with the umbrella, the plumb line of his face not unspooled by the year since she saw him, though the memory was second-hand. The memory of a memory, dwelled on only in the cover of darkness. He was a question mark, a fish hook, the curiosity that killed the cat. After the lights had been turned out, it was his kouros face she saw on the whitewashed ceiling: a boy she didn't even have a name for. _Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? _He taunted, as regularly as she breathed.

... Martin? Mathew? Emmanuel? Arghhh!

She had never felt so heartsick. It was pathetic.

She set the cake on the table with a little too much force. It was tempting to throw the whole thing out- to savour the experience of making a birthday cake a little longer. When she cooked, she imagined the faces of Aubrey and Agnes lit up in delight. She was desperate to throw them a celebration- to shower them with adoration- to treat them to the kind of happiness they hadn't felt since their mother died, and certainly never felt at school. The twins spent their lunchtimes in the library, as Didyme found out the hard way. It was her first black eye.

"_J'attends l'amour," _the radio sputtered again. She had only met one person whose love was worth waiting for- her brother- and he hurled himself off a cliff. It was love that made her want to follow him. What sick kind of love makes you want to kill yourself?

Didyme took a few deep breaths, grappling with the quivering corners of her mind, forcing it into steadiness. Her thoughts twisted and turned, shooting off in a million directions at once.

She was scooping the whole cake mess into the trash when Mr. Lévi shuffled into the kitchen. "Something smells delicious," he said blithely, gazing around the room like a mole blinking in the sunlight.

"I'm throwing it away." The cake unglued itself from the plate, and slid into the trash with a satisfying _squelch. _

It took a few moments for her words to reach him. "You don't need to do that."

"I accidentally cooked it in the microwave_. _It's all gloopy!" The lie came too easily; hot blood pounded at her temples, her cheeks. The room felt too hot. Too small. Restlessness reared inside her, and she ached for barren, windswept landscapes and empty moon-drenched beaches. Anywhere but _inside_ somewhere. The room was as small as a sarcophagus, and she was the restless spirit clawing for release.

"Now, now, what's the matter?" His voice sounded flat, almost in a parody of fatherly concern. And she saw the mirage of her own father- his net of wrinkles trapping two jewel-bright eyes, the downy hair covering his soft body in cascades of white, hands that could smile leaving traces of ink when he folded her to his embrace. Her brother, a poorly constructed bag of bones kept together by willpower alone. She even missed her insufferable tiger mother. And the boy, too (though it annoyed her that she missed Mr. Anonymous, when he was a gatecrasher in the reminiscence of her family).

"Nothing," she forced herself to say.

"Are you… crying?" For a moment, he sounded concerned, alert.

"Yes," she said in surprise, touching one hand to a wet cheek.

Luckily the doorbell rang, sparing her from answering any awkward questions he didn't really want to pose and she wanted to answer even less.

"I'll get that," she gasped, her chocolate-encrusted fingers clumsily finding at the apron strings as she stumbled through the room. She was desperately trying to avoid meeting Mr. Lévi's stare, but his hands caught her automatically as she moved past him. "Sorry," she mumbled, flinching at his touch like a rabbit kicking in the hunter's brace. But he only pulled the knot at the back of her apron free and handed her a crisp white handkerchief. She held it in her hands with unspoken gratitude. "Sorry," she repeated. "I'm not usually like this."

"I know." He patted her shoulder, probably thinking it was a comforting gesture. "It's the weather. Dredges up the past, I find. Did you realise…"

He stopped mid sentence, gazing at the clock above the kitchen sink. Words had failed him. The doorbell rang again, giving her the excuse to shrug his hand away.

_I'm exactly like you, _Theo thought as Didyme pushed herself through the front room. _I don't belong to this time either._

* * *

Afton was about to ring the doorbell for the _third _bloody time when the door swung open. It was answered by a surly black-haired youth. She dressed in a black frock with a forest green cardigan thrown over it- there was a small brooch affixed to its breast pocket. A crow, wrought from silver wire, a black chip of obsidian soldered into its single eye socket. It seemed to be scowling, and animate, flapping its wings and cawing when he wasn't looking.

"Eyes up here, buddy," the girl growled, all business. And he realised he had been staring at her chest for longer than socially acceptable. The brooch had tricked him into faux pas. "What do you want?"

Two very frank hazel eyes bored into his. There was something very unsettling about her face- the curved sweep of her jawline, a protruding forehead, the condescending pucker of her lips. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and glittering dangerously; she was just forcing back tears. "Are you the fortune-teller?"

"No, she's out." The girl sighed heavily, and opened the door wider. "They're at band practice, but I think they'll be back soon. You can come in and wait if you want." She turned away without waiting for his response, her movements jerky and mechanical. She raised a hand to her eyes- it fisted around a white scrap of material.

The room was like something out of a fairytale. It was filled with an assortment of oddities entirely jarring in their variety- a model skeleton stood by the door, wearing a fedora and a red scarf. A stuffed wildcat growled from a coffee table. Crystal ornaments hung off every available surface. It was garish, but it still took away his breath. It was like being in some sort of high-end gypsy thrift shop. A child's dream playground.

The girl turned back to him and smiled slightly, the uncertain, stoic smile you only share with strangers. It had a defiant edge, almost galling him: _go on. Ask me why I'm crying. I dare you. _

But it was enough for something to click into place, and in a horrible moment of epiphany he realised what was so unsettling about her face.

She was the spitting image of Aro. The energetic, perpetually smiling ringleader of the Volturi.

And she smelt… wonderful. The scent of chocolate- rich and milky- swam in the space between them. It was mixed with something lovely; the joviality of the sun, the memory of a sister's hug, the taste of summer fruit- nectarines, peaches, cherries. The burning in his throat leap up, the flames demanding to be quenched via her blood. Drinking it would be like drinking sunshine. And peach iced tea…

He shook his head; the room suddenly seemed slightly brighter, like someone had turned up a dimmer switch.

"Sit down," she said abrasively, conspicuously sniffing as she indicated to a two-person love seat with the toe of her shoe. "I'll make a pot of coffee. I _had_ cake. But you're too late."

_"Didyme," _Marcus gasped out from behind him, his voice flying through his throat like air through a flute. _"Is that you?"_

The girl looked up, blinking rapidly in an effort to clear a tear-blurred vision. "What?"

"You've grown," he stated blankly, though those two-and-a-half words carried the suggestion of something else- wonder? Doubt?

The girl frowned like he was a puzzle she couldn't work out. "That's a strange thing to say to someone you've never met."

"Don't… don't you know me?"

"I don't think so," the girl said rather shyly, her face flooding with colour. Afton noticed a smear of chocolate running across her cheek, and his desire to drain her dry increased until it was almost unbearable. He clapped a hand over his nose, but that did little to assuage the bloodlust.

Marcus sounded almost kitten-like, his voice all soft and coaxing. "Not even a little bit?"

The girl stood across from Marcus, the pastel pink love seat a neat partition between them. Her body language was standoffish, but her voice mimicked the softness in his. "You were here a year ago. I saw you. You held this black umbrella, only I didn't know what that was. I thought you were Medusa, the way you looked…"

_"That was you," _he breathed, so lightly Afton wasn't sure her human hearing could pick it up.

The girl's face lit up. "That _was_ you!" She said it like she wasn't repeating him- the stress was slightly different- the _was _a tender cradle of wonder and curiosity.

Afton got the sense he was witnessing something very private, but he could barely process it past the dizzying call of her blood. He backed away, knocking over several large ornaments, but neither Marcus nor the girl noticed. They were staring at each other the way one stares at a new Apple product- with unabashed desire. They probably wouldn't notice a ten foot dragon if it crashed through the window.

"Markos... that's it, isn't it? That's your name."

Marcus nodded vigorously. "I go by Marcus now."

"Oh dear," the girl said, gasping strangely in a paroxysm of comprehension. "You once married a goat, didn't you?"

"I did," he said, and the words curdled the room yellow. "It was a bet, though."

"And you make the most awful poetry I've ever read!"

"I'm slightly better now, I think."

"Your favourite colour is dark blue, like wet stone, and I'm always telling you to get a haircut, and you're terrifically afraid of eels..."

"Can't stand them," he agreed in a hush. _Awe_- that was the note in his voice.

"You say the scar on your ankle was from an eel bite," she said weakly, surrendering herself to the love seat's velvet embrace. "And I don't believe you."

Marcus sprang over the chair, agile as a cat, and sat down beside her. He slid the fabric of his left trouser leg slightly, revealing a small crescent-shaped scar. "It makes a good story, though."

"I never feel claustrophobic when you're here," she admitted. "I'm trying to wile you away from Aro, it's selfish of me, but I want you all to myself."

"You're such a miser," he said with a grin that leaked into his eyes. "Would never share as much as a button."

The girl sucked in her breath. "So this is what a catharsis feels like…"

She squeezed her eyes closed, but two fat tears escaped the cage of her lashes and slid down her cheeks. Her hand entwined around his, her knuckles whitening as the skin stretched. The blood pooled to her fingertips.

_Beam me up, Scotty, before I kill her! _Afton had never felt the urge so badly- not even in the wildest of his newborn days, which were admittedly not that wild.

"_Marcus_," she repeated, clinging onto the scrap of his name like the white handkerchief. "Is that all true? They _feel_ like memories, but I don't remember making them. They're twisted up inside me- all these words- and I can't read most of them- but they want _so desperately _to be let out. Am I going insane? Are you just a figment of my imagination?"

"I could ask the same of you." His thumb gingerly encircled her own, their hands making a prayer. "But let's not get too existential about this."

By sheer miracle, Afton's back-flung, groping hands found the door knob. He twisted it and rapidly jettisoned into the night. He gulped the cold, electrically charged air in an attempt to excavate the girl's divine scent from his lungs. Gradually the delirium swilling around inside him drained away, giving him leeway for coherent thought.

He reached for his cellphone, his lifeline to normalcy. Chelsea's most recent message glowed on the screen: _No, it's shattered irreparably. It doesn't matter, Afton, it's only a vase. Worse things can be broken. Aro told me about your mission- I'm forgiving you, okay? Don't you dare sound surprised!_

As the first rain drops fell, he typed his reply: _who is didyme? _

* * *

**Author's note: **As always, thank you for your reviews! I'm curious about your response is to this chapter- I hope it wasn't too sappy or confusing :|


	6. The White Knight

She is coming, my own, my sweet,

Were it ever so airy a tread,

My heart would hear her and beat,

Were it earth in an earthy bed;

My dust would hear her and beat,

Had I lain for a century dead;

Would start and tremble under her feet,

And blossom in purple and red.

_- Come into the Garden, Maud (Tennyson)_

* * *

_Paris, 2011_

The pair of teenagers were too wrapped up in each other to notice Afton's rambunctious departure. They were in the free fall of the trapeze, the space between the bars of safety; the heart-stopping moment of uncertainty, when for a moment it appears as though the artist may fall. That's what it felt like, anyway. Love is a strange emotion. It makes you fall, it makes you fly, it makes you forget the difference.

Feverish vermilion burned across Didyme's cheeks, but her voice was unperturbed. "You're right. It could do my head in, thinking about why and how I'm here. _Je pense, donc je suis._"

Confusion writhed within her like a living thing. Even though she knew the memories weren't her own- that is, not made by her own eyes- they still felt like a part of her. If she had sprouted another arm, she would've been equally shocked; but it didn't change the fact that the limb was an organic, natural part of her body. In hindsight, she understood why it was so important she _didn't_ remember the boy's name. It was her subconscious protecting her from disturbing a hornet's nest, by way of showing its thrumming exterior. _Do not touch_, it warned. Too late now; one little touch, and it all came rushing out.

_All of it_.

Too many memories to take in with one sitting; a broad horizon to which her human mind was like a tiny little looking glass. Or, as she tried to explain in halts and starts to the boy sitting so still before her, like a vast book she could only read a page at a time, with all the pages out of order. The happy _Markos_ in those memories recited poems; he wove yellow dandelion bracelets; he held her hand as they dived off bone-white cliffs into the vast green-blue of the Mediterranean. But he also licked red gloves off his hands, and his kisses had the metallic tint of blood. He was inhuman. He was sanguisugent. She didn't care.

In the next sixty minutes, she seemed to do nothing but talk. She gave him a lengthy dissertation about the strange string of circumstances that lead to her being in Paris. She spoke of Agnes and Aubrey, their kindness and charity, their unquestioning acceptance of a girl who may as well have come from Mars. She kept talking because words were what she did best, as if they could chase away the bloodstains, as if they could build a bridge to a more innocent time, as if they could ameliorate his suffering.

Because he _wasn't_ the same boy as the one in her memory. Time had dug its stubborn claws into him.

The physical changes were the easiest to accept. After all, he was still the same shape; a lean and tapering body with broad shoulders and skinny, insectile legs, like a triangle. His hands were large and square and his ankles were impossibly feminine and delicate. And even in stillness he had the fluid grace of an apex predator, the attraction of danger emanating from every pore of his alabaster skin. But it was crumpled skin, with tiny streaks of white running through the pale flush like cobwebs.

His black eyes deceived his youthful body by seeping world-weariness. There was a thin membrane over their surfaces, making them seem dull and bright at the same time; dark pools with a thin crusting of ice over the top. The reason for this was thus; Marcus was slowly petrifying. He spent too much time sitting stock-still in his empty study. Infrequently, guards like Afton would keep him entertained, but they were never a permanent instalment. Sooner or later, they'd realise Marcus didn't quite match up to the romantic ideal they had made of him in their minds. They became annoyed and restless, and when it became too much to bear he freed them from service.

He was purposefully not fed as often as the rest of his coven, to promote the idea he was the 'virtuous' brother, as a counterweight to Caius. In the vampire world, morality was measured in denial; black eyes and periorbital dark circles were the surest sign of a conscience. Didyme noticed his cornea were ringed with grey _arcus senilis_- the opaque nimbus she had only seen in the eyes of the elderly and jaundiced. His haloed gaze contained caverns where there had been mires before- though she didn't know what had given him such depth. She was innocent to the years of suffering induced by her death. She didn't know the great void of time she'd jumped through to the modern age. She only had the barest inkling of the destruction she had wrecked upon his life.

Despite being a warped parody of _Markos,_ she still found pieces of him, traces of gentleness in his stiff face, a fleeting recognition that time had all but sucked the marrow from.

* * *

Marcus was as still as a photograph of himself. His thoughts were broken- scattered to the wind- they came and went in rapid bursts. Over the course of the hour he ranged between vehemence and reverence. Perhaps her coming would answer the divine question; perhaps she was a demon from hell, sent to torment him; perhaps she was an angel sent to ease his pain; but the truth was she just _was_, sent not for anything. She was just _there. _And that was the hardest thing to accept; the purposelessness of her sudden appearance. If there are Gods, they were silent.

As the hour passed he found himself relaxing. Once he assured himself she was a substantial thing, built of bone and blood rather than wish-fulfilment and pixie dust, his dusty mind settled down. There is a small group of people in society who are absolutely fascinated with the daily minutiae in the life of seventeen-year-old girls, and Marcus is decidedly _not_ one of them. His attention strayed, and he watched, in part fascination, part bewilderment, as her bond to him grew and grew, faltered, and grew again. Each second that passed it grew stronger.

It was a human bond, tentative and wavering, not the concrete and steel of immortal love. Human bonds were becoming increasingly confounding to him, the way ties between old people were confounding, because he was forgetting what it was like to form them himself. Even as his gift strengthened over the centuries, he was steadily losing touch with the world_. _The more he saw, the less he understood. One day, perhaps in a few centuries, he would see all and know nothing.

Marcus let his eyes trace the merlot capillaries bursting across her face; the stunningly ugly black pricks of grease needling into her nose; her hair- which lacked a voluptuous shimmer- worried at the roots and split at the ends- erratic and thin and entirely breakable. Tiny lines shot off in all directions when she smiled- so close to permanence- her heart thudded in unsteady transience- so close to failing- she absolutely reeked of humanity, its slow decay into the grave.

The mortal carapace was a flimsy one, but her fragility ran deeper than that; she was uncertain- quiveringly so. She wasn't frozen as he was. She grew- she changed- she was volatile. More than that; she was vulnerable.

The golden aura that hung around Didyme as a vampire was much subtler. The room _felt_ warmer, but that could just be her brilliant smile. It could just be her words which tinted it yellow. Her melodious voice that stroked his mind with buttery fingers. A voice that crested across the room, rising and falling with natural modulation, filling every crevice with its liquid levity.

When he spoke, his voice was arid. The difference in sound was that between the burble of a brooke and the noise of two grains of sand rubbing together.

She continued to talk, he continued to listen, and they observed one another. Comparing wounds inflicted by time. Wondering if they were sort that would heal.

* * *

Aubrey and Agnes came home from band practice. They stood in the doorway and dripped water all over the carpet. Agnes raised a finger to her lips, and Aubrey followed her silently into the adjourning apartment.

"They're doing so well," Agnes said condescendingly once the door had closed. She held her trumpet-case close to her chest. "We mustn't disturb them."

"What?" Aubrey said over the clang of pots at the kitchen sink; their father was making dinner. He tiredly rubbed at the spot the strap of his keyboard had indented his shoulder. It had been a long and uneventful day. He longed to return to the parlour room; it felt good in there, as warm and contenting as the _Coq au Vin_ his father was preparing.

Agnes stowed her trumpet-case in its place in a cupboard, where it would gather dust for another week. She tossed her long and sodden mane of golden hair over one shoulder and began finger-combing it briskly. "_Beware the_ _I__des of March,_" she muttered.

Aubrey slumped in the plastic dining chair. "Must you say that every year? You're the boy who cried _wolf_."

"This time it happens to be true," she retaliated. Agnes accepted a stack of chipped ceramic plates from her father. "Da, we're having a guest tonight, we'll need another one."

* * *

Neither Didyme nor Marcus took any notice of the twins. Their world had significantly reduced in its dimensions. Marcus, for all his advanced senses, had barely registered their entrance.

Everything else simply ceased to be of importance but for the girl leaning against him.

Didyme had Marcus's hand in her grip and was examining it closely. Her questing fingers found the junction between his forefinger and thumb, and she pinched the soft flesh there. It was unyielding and marmoreal, but perfectly fluid when he wriggled his fingers. It was also slightly cooler than room-temperature; not so much a chill, but a siphoning of her own heat where she touched him._ A perfectly bearable temperature_, she thought, without knowing her mind was already readily using terms such as _bearable _and _tolerable_- words with meanings that implied continuance.

"Your hand is colder than I remember," she remarked lightly.

"It's more a case of _your _hand being _warmer_," he said in his quiet, raspy voice. He still suffered from shell-shock. The second coming of Jesus would've shocked him less. He barely batted an eye when the Volturi finally overthrew the Romanian coven. Even Bella and Edward, who shared the most intense love he'd ever seen, failed to evoke any kind of emotion in him. It took an awful lot to surprise a vampire who counted his birthdays in centennials (thirty-three) but in this situation, _surprise_ was an understatement. Didyme- this impossible creature- a realisation of his deepest desires- though snarkier than he imagined- she made him feel _numb_.

Which probably wasn't the best emotion. But it was still _better than nothing. _

Marcus was hyperaware of every place they came in contact. Touching was inevitable considering the design of the loveseat; it had been built for the purposes implied in its name, and its Parisian makers knew their market well.

She plucked at his hand like a harp. Their hips and shoulders touched and her forearm pressed to his. Even through their respective clothes, he could feel its warmth, its pliancy. Her long, dun-coloured legs stretched out of the black frock, propped up by a coffee table. He slowly clenched and unclenched his jaw.

The innocuous exploration of his hand increased in intensity. "Does it bother you?"

He paused to ponder the question. Even though it had a simple yes or no answer, he had forgotten the context in which it had been asked, so it hung, frameless and impossibly broad, in his mind. There were many things about her _bothered_ him; obviously _how and why_ she was there; the way she could prise him apart and not quite put him back together the right way, making him feel uncomfortable in his own skin; how she was exactly the same, yet radically different, all at once…

He was still thinking up a response when she spoke again. Didyme seemed to think she was being slighted, so her voice was slightly tart. "I'm surprised how level-headed you're being."

He shook his head. 'Level-headed' was the wrong descriptor; 'stunned' would be more accurate. "Is there any other way to be?"

"Of _course _there is! You could start by… um… " she blushed bright red, suddenly unsure of what to say. She was too innocent to know how to put her demand into words. That was so like _Didyme_ it sealed his throat; so quick to make an order that she didn't have time to fill it with an explicit desire.

Marcus still wanted to probe, ever so gently, the realm of her memory. He touched her softly, in the small cave made by the curve of her jaw meeting her neck, letting his hand speak for him. He made circles with the tips of his fingers over skin covered with very fine, downy white hair. She reddened further, the pulse juddering, and the catchment of colour in her cheeks was something delicious. Though he'd seen blushing before, numerous times, the heat filling Didyme's skin- which was now more dusky than winter cream- was like watching the sun set for the first time. She dug her fingernails into his other hand, and he broke the contact off before he was tempted to take things further.

Her pupils took time to refocus, swaying slightly like spotted autumn leaves in a breeze. "Ah," was all she said.

"Does that remind you of anything?"

"I don't think I could forget." Her throat bobbed as she swallowed a little. "The first time we touched, it was just like that. I was _shocked_ by your boldness."

He raised his eyebrows archly. "There was a bug on your ear…"

"Oh, yes, the 'bug', I remember _that_ too." She stammered around the quotation marks in her voice, in a strange combination of snide geniality. "There was a 'bug' on here, too." And she brushed her hand against the small knot of bone on his wrist. Then she withdrew her hand- both her hands- and folded them to her stomach. "Gods, I was so _stupid_."

"What?" His voice hitched, breaking the word into two syllables.

"I'm different," she said, point-blank. Her eyes were steady on his. "And in more respects than warm hands."

He took a minute before responding. "I know," he said. "I don't know exactly _how_ you're different, not yet. I don't know how it will change anything. I don't know if it's something we can work around. But I _know_."

A pause.

"Close your eyes," she commanded tremulously.

"And don't move," she added.

She made sure he'd done as she bade before moving. The room's lines were embedded on his retina in phosphorescent yellow. He listened to her gentle breathing, the gushing of her heartbeat. At such a close proximity, he could faintly hear her heart's cycle, even the trepidatious moment of silence; the gentle vacuum created by the organ restarting. Blood mellowed and richened as the human body aged, but at seventeen, Didyme's blood was at its pinnacle of its effervescence; the fountain of eternal youth. It had a pleasant and fruity redolence. Her hand still fluttered at his, and then its featherlight touch was dancing up his arm. She shifted on the seat until he felt her heavy weight on his legs. He moved so that they were stationed on either side of her, the heels of his brogues digging into the seat's thickly padded upholstery. A chair-button dug into his upper back. His knees awkwardly knocked against her elbows. Her hands came to rest against the nape of his neck, interlacing, gently moving his head forward. He was irradiated by the heat given off by her hot blood, coursing so swiftly underneath the thin membrane of flesh.

The sound of her breathing grew louder and louder, until he felt the brush of air gently tickle his chin. It was all he could hear.

And then she was kissing him. Very chastely, an innocent exploration, testing the waters as it were. Her lips closed over his, and her hands drifted into his hair, almost dispassionately tangling it in her fingers. His own hands had locked at his sides. His knees pressed to her waist. Hair fell onto his jacket lapel- his or hers, he didn't know. She was all around him. He gasped lightly. She took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. The pressure on his neck became more insistent. It was too much. The memory of a hundred others just like it were tearing him apart. They pounded their little fists against the insides of his eyelids- it still felt like a betrayal to the memory of _her_- although she was right in front of him. Fingernails pricked his neck. Too much to take in. He couldn't- couldn't-

Didyme opened her glimmering eyes. Her entire face was flushed a deep puce, even the tips of her ears that peeked out from the wiry cascade of her hair. "What's the matter? Did I do something wrong?"

"No- exactly right," he gasped. "That's the problem!"

Her hands loosened, sliding down to tug at his lapels. "I don't have to be _im_perfect on my first try," she teased, to hide her confusion. "Am I going too fast? Should I give it another hour?"

"It's fine," he said. "I'm a little out of practice, that's all."

Didyme nodded, her fingers tapping against his chest as if they were woodpeckers to the hollow of his sternum. Sounding out his heart. "Just hold me, then."

She proffered her hand, palm-up, leaving it dangling like a rope for him to grasp.

He wrapped his hand around it and clung on for dear life. He pulled her into his arms and rained kisses on her hair.

* * *

The weight of something heavy fell on Didyme's shoulder- _a hand!_- she yelped and turned around.

It was Aubrey. He wobbled like one of those pear-shaped toys, with weights of lead attached to the bottom of his feet.

He looked away pointedly. "I said your name, like, ten times."

He was flustered and embarrassed for having to intrude. There was something strange in the way the boy held Didyme. It was innocent but intense- it was the intensity that scared him. He had never seen anything like it. "Dinner's ready."

"Oh, excellent, I'm starving," Didyme said cheerfully. "Marcus can join, right?"

"I dunno." Aubrey leaned closer to Didyme, and helped her get up from the seat. Marcus quickly but subtly crossed his legs. "Um, probably."

She paused to readjust her skewed cardigan, patting to check the brooch was still in place. It was actually a timepiece, with a little clock face buried in its long, black beak. The beak had to be lifted open to check the time, and the gears buried in its body whirred ingeniously, causing the one visible wing to rise and fall when it was opened. She found it quite by accident, in the set of drawers of the room that was now her bedroom. The twins' grandfather was a clockmaker. His obituary, a cut-out from the newspaper, was framed and hung on the wall by her bed. It went something like this:

_4-6-95_

_BERTRAND J. Lévi, Dr. _

_Bertrand (Berty) passed away peacefully in his family home in Ménilmontant, aged 75 years. Treasured and much loved husband of Camille (deceased). Beloved father of Isabelle. Respected father-in-law of Théodore. Dearly loved brother of François (deceased), Christophe (deceased) and Jean-Pierre (deceased). Loved grandfather to Aubrey and Agnes. Dedicated and respected member of the medical profession. Worked for many years at Robert-Debré Hospital, 19th Arr. Had passionate interest in clockmaking. Several of his clocks are on display at The National Library of France. A true gentleman and devout Catholic. _

_"Memories and love are forever."_

She remembered it so clearly because, well, it was a little morbid. She slept in the old man's bed, the one that he quite possibly died in. It was written before Isabellle died later that year- probably by Isabelle herself. It was she who had hung it in the place of honour over the headboard. Once, on a whim, Didyme lifted the frame up and found the dark imprint of a crucifix on the faded wallpaper.

Didyme was dipped in oil. Such thoughts slid off her easily; there was no purchase for them in her expounded happiness. "Ready, Marcus?"

The boy nodded and rose quickly, skimming his hands almost self-consciously over his trousers. She reached out and slipped her hand into his- a habit which would soon become unremarkable with its regularity. In his grasp, her hand was rawboned and brittle as sugar glass.

* * *

"So where are you from, Marcus?" Agnes said as she speared another slice of fried zucchini. She had helped herself as soon as her father set the plates down. Mr. Lévi himself paused to whisper a small prayer of grace before eating.

Marcus made a show of pushing around a piece of chicken with the foreign implement in his hand- a fork. He needed time to mull her question over. Obviously the answer was _Volterra_, because that had been his home for the past three thousand years. But sitting next to Didyme, who held his hand under the table, it felt like a betrayal. She had predeceased Volterra, probably never heard the word spoken aloud. By bringing it up, he would also bring up the past several centuries of his life, and he wasn't quite ready for that. Horrible guilt itched his stomach- the anticipated ghost of her own. She would feel monstrous for causing him such protracted suffering- and worse, she would _pity_ him. He hated it, _despised it_, when people felt sorry for him.

Didyme gently squeezed his thumb, a reminder of the question he had yet to answer. "Greece," he said finally.

"Oh, what part?" Agnes asked mildly. "There _are_ parts, right?"

He nodded. "Arcadia," he replied truthfully, though he had not been there for ages. Literally. He had not returned since the Bronze Age. When it had not been called Arcadia and the people who occupied it were Pelasgians.

"Huh." She shrugged, and her golden hair shimmered in the light. "Never heard of it."

"I have," Mr Lévi said. His children looked up sharply; he rarely spoke of his own accord. "Lord Byron is buried there. I teach his poetry." He tugged on his bushy beard thoughtfully, the eyes behind cloudy spectacles already seeking out other invisible horizons to ponder, but not before they dipped to the boy sitting across the small dining table. "Are you a school-friend of my children?"

"Da, we don't _have _friends at school, everyone thinks we're _freaks,_" Agnes said exasperatedly.

Aubrey glowered mutinously at his sister. "_You're_ the one who told Estelle Verlaine she'd drown before her eleventh birthday."

"Well, she did, didn't she? It's her fault for not listening." Agnes shook her supercilious head in indignation. "And _you_ blurted to the class that Mr. Crevel was sexually abused as a child, I think that's _a little _worse."

"Agnes," Mr. Lévi intoned, and again the twins' faces swivelled in his direction. "Elbows off the table, dear."

She sighed self-righteously and returned her attention to Marcus. "Why aren't you eating?"

"I'm not hungry, I guess," he said. He dithered with his food by sniffing the chicken on the end of his fork. It smelt repulsive.

Obviously the reaction showed on his face, because Agnes narrowed her eyes. "The food isn't _that _bad. I don't think Da even burnt it this time. Go ahead and take a bite."

"Oh, Marcus is just being polite," Didyme snapped. She had just finished sorting the food in front of her into little piles based on type and colour. "He doesn't eat food. He drinks blood."

The piece of chicken fell off the end of Marcus's fork. Aubrey and Agnes had twin faces of horror, their mouths both agape in little 'o's. The only one not affected by the pronouncement was Mr. Lévi.

"Aubrey," he said sternly. "Don't chew with your mouth open."

His warning went unheard.

Aubrey's eyes were comically wide. "You _drink blood?_ Like a _vampire?_"

* * *

**Author's note:** Happy (belated) Valentines! :) My protagonists seem to have forgotten about Afton, but I haven't :) He returns in the next chapter.

If you've got time, please review! Did you like it? Did you not like it? Let me know!


	7. Truth and Ides

**Warning: **character **death, violence, profanity**, and one of those really annoying **sms conversations**. (It's really not that graphic, though.)

For this alone on Death I wreak

The wrath that garners in my heart;

He put our lives so far apart

We cannot hear each other speak.

_- In Memoriam 82 (Tennyson)_

* * *

_Paris, 2011_

Afton was a receding figure in the rain. The air around him blurred softly, like a breath across glass. Soon he was just made a man-sized hole in the downpour.

Although the environment engendered melancholia, he was in a surprisingly good humour. He seemed to have adopted some miraculous immunity to the romantic desolation about the rain-sluiced streets, the houses with locked doors and barred shutters. Even the aromatic, earthy smell brought out by the water couldn't corrupt the sublime conviction that everything would turn out _just right_.

He was close to bursting into song. _I'm singing in the rain_… _what a glorious feeling!_

It was a good thing his phone went off when it did, then. His grin was so wide it bulged his cheeks. A text from Chelsea, finally!

_Afton: who is didyme? _

_Chelsea: I don't know? (… Am I supposed to?) _

He reached a natural standstill under the eaves of a closed shoe-store. Disturbed by his presence, the birds resting on its slick tiles departed in a messy flurry of squawking and black feathers. They looked like pieces of masonry falling into the sky.

Afton was stumped; he was sure Chelsea would know who Didyme was, by the simple explicative Chelsea seemed to know everything about everyone_._ She was a gossip… and yet, she was the only person who stoically spent afternoons on end reading _New Scientist _with him.

_Afton: didyme… that's probably not how you spell it. vizimoe? dusymole? diademii? it's got sort of a spanish flair_

While he waited for Chelsea to reply, he wiped the phone free from a raindrop that coalesced on its screen. As his skin didn't secrete oils, it wasn't stamped with fingerprints.

A phone was an odd thing for a vampire to possess; it lacked the gaudy opulence that usually attracted his kind. The Volturi loved _flashy_ and _grotesque_; all the better if these characteristics were combined, like a ruby necklace made to look like a slit throat. Actually, that sounded like an _excellent_ anniversary present for Chelsea.

_Chelsea: Ah, _Didyme. _I know whom you mean. Let me guess… you found one of his poems, didn't you? Was it awful? Did he dedicate it to World Vision? _

Afton smiled as he typed. _i… i like marcus's poetry. it's… expressive. _

He didn't have to wait long for her next reply.

_Chelsea: Come now, it's torturous enough to rival Jane's divining fire. _

_Afton: that's harsh. _

_Chelsea: Gosh, and to think I nearly forgot I was talking to Mr. Righteous… _

_Afton: so r u going to tell me who didyme is?_

_Chelsea: … No, actually. I'm not. It's not my place to disrespect Marcus by giving you information you _clearly _aren't privy to. Though he may be a gormless idiot, he's _my _gormless idiot, capisci? He'll tell you when he's ready… or not at all. But that's _his _choice. _

_Afton: please?!_

_Chelsea: Why do you want to know all of a sudden? You haven't fallen in love with him, have you? _Gods above. You and everyone else.

_Afton: … no? hahaha… _

_Afton: i'm just… tired of feeling left out all the time. i want to have a vague idea of who didyme is (enemy? acquaintance? sister?) so i don't look stupid trying to talk to her. or less stupid than normal if u know what i mean. _

_Chelsea: Oh, Afton. I don't think you have to worry about that. Something tells me Didyme isn't the best conversationalist at the moment. _

_Afton: haha, she was laconic _

_Chelsea: I wouldn't know. I missed her by thirty years. _

_Afton: well she was pretty direct when i talked to her_

_Chelsea: Scusami, but when you say 'I talked to her', what do you mean, exactly? _

_Afton: uh i opened my mouth and waggled my tongue a bit to produce meaningful sound. whats _your _definition of 'talk'? _

_Chelsea: Afton… Didyme is _dead. _She died before I was even _born_- we're talking the time around Ussher's chronology here. She's very, _very _dead. If there was a light spectrum of deceasion, she'd be infrared. You can't get much deader than that. (Wait, did I just make a science analogy?!)_

Afton sat down, although the pavement around him was sticky with gum. He re-read Chelsea's text in case there was some simple explanation for her strange message. There wasn't.

_Afton: that wasn't my impression… _

Time passed as they settled into an argument. At some point, she'd given up the notion he was joking and was seriously questioning his IQ. The rain slowed until the streets shone with an unguent-like lustre. Occasionally a barking dog or the faraway sound of drunken singing punctured the night, but for the most part it was unusually quiet for a metropolis.

That wild contentment had almost completely left him now, leaving a coldness in its wake that had nothing to do with the promise of winter on the air. An ambulance sped past him, its red and blue lights digging shards of colour into his eyes, spraying the ground in front of him with a fine film of scummy water. It had been hours… where was Marcus?

_Bloody hell, I'm the worst Volturi Guard in history,_ Afton thought as he teetered on the edge of panic.

"Afton," an instantly recognisable voice said. Marcus seemed to derive pleasure from sneaking up on him. Relief took the edge off his annoyance; his friend wasn't in danger due to Afton's negligence.

Before he could utter a scathing reprimand, the boy came into his line of sight and it died on his lips.

There was something very wrong with Marcus. He looked even more pale and drawn than usual. Jewel-bright bloodstains were glistening on his clothes in random splotches; his whole body was trembling. There was a wide smear of blood across his nose and lips, and more running down his neck. It was like seeing a shark in the bathtub; the sight of him was discordant and terrifying enough that Afton felt a knee-jerk reaction to run away.

"I fucked up," Marcus said blankly, not bothering to go into specifics.

Afton blanched; he thought Marcus was incapable of swearing. "What happened?"

Marcus looked skywards (at the brown underbelly of the eaves) and ran a hand through his hair. It sprang back at his touch. "It was an _imbroglio_," he continued; still no specifics. "I don't know what to do."

"It can't be that bad," Afton said.

Marcus closed the distance between them and crouched down. For an absurdly hopeful moment, Afton thought Marcus wanted to hug him. But he reached for Afton's cellphone.

"Is this your communication device?"

"Yeah."

Marcus looked at it, nonplussed. He raised the screen to his raspberry-red mouth. "I wish to speak with Athenodora, please," he said, empathically drawing out each word.

A small smile quirked Afton's lips. "That's not how it works."

"Show me?" Marcus said in a small voice.

Afton nodded and took the cellphone from him. They brushed skin and the burning agony of desire shot through him. Marcus's eyes widened. "Afton, _focus_."

"S-sorry," he stuttered. The scent of blood made the air between them tacky. There were small water crystals in Marcus's hair, though it was too early for the dew-point temperature. He…

_"Afton! _Personal emergency," Marcus said in exasperation. "Could you _not fantasise!_"

"I'll ring Chelsea. She can take the phone to the Mmm…."

He was about to say _the Matron_, but he wasn't sure whether Marcus was aware of the nickname, or to what degree he'd find it offensive. It was an inside joke with the guards- one of few that Afton understood. In Victorian London, a _Matron_ was the wife of a workhouse Master.

There was a tiny scrap of amusement in the boy's voice. _"Athenodora_."

* * *

_An hour earlier_

He should've known this decision would follow him to the present; it was inevitable three thousand years ago, as it was inevitable now. _Aro or Didyme_; it had to be one or the other. They were too possessive, too competitive, to share him.

Only it was presenting itself to Marcus in a very unusual form: _obey the Law, or tell the truth?_

He'd rather stab himself with his fork than answer that question.

"Are you alright?" Aubrey said. "Allergic to garlic or something?"

Marcus laughed hollowly, unable to keep the note of betrayal from it. "You obviously don't know a lot about vampires, do you?"

"Dude, I didn't know vampires were actually _real _until _five seconds ago_."

"Oh, we're definitely _real_," Marcus drawled. "But _vampire_ is a very disagreeable term, as you can imagine. I prefer 'proactive anaemic'. It's politically correct."

Aubrey raised his eyebrows. "Are you… is that sarcasm?"

He shrugged, making one of those 'what can you do?' faces. "I think we all know how vulnerable Didyme is to flights of fancy," he said delicately. "I tell her I'd _kill_ for a hamburger… and she thinks I'm one of the bloodsucking undead."

Didyme flushed, suddenly sitting ramrod-straight. Marcus, with a sinking heart, realised she was gearing up for an argument. _Oh, please… don't say anything… just let me explain later… _

"I've seen you," she hissed. "Breaking the bones of small children so you could suck the red marrow from their medullary cavities. I remember you tearing a young lady apart so enthusiastically all that remained was a bloody mist… and _globules. _That isn't a _flight of fancy_, Marcus."

He felt like kicking himself. Why couldn't he say something before? It didn't have to be a long explanation; _by the way, can you please not tell your friends I'm a vampire, I'll explain soon. _

But he got so caught up in the colourful world of emotions (his amazement and nervousness and ardour for the brown-skinned rough-and-tumble girl from Mars) that the thought never occurred to him.

Marcus swallowed his guilt and gave Didyme a bleak look. "You don't get out much, do you?"

"You can't just _discount_ them," she said, trembling like a boiling kettle. "Don't you _dare_ laugh at me; you know I speak the truth!"

"Would it make you feel better if I proved I wasn't a vampire?"

Didyme nodded, clenching her teeth. Her hand squeezed into a fist under his, her little red thumb wrapped tightly around the nub of his. Marcus silently pleaded her to understand; but of course she couldn't. She wasn't able to read his mind.

He put on an indulgent smile; it felt like crushing a sandcastle. "Do you have any wooden stakes handy? Or holy water? Or crosses?"

"You mock me." She twisted her hand free from his and buried it in her lap. Didyme looked smaller when she was wounded; shrivelled up, as if her dress was suddenly three sizes too big. Marcus knew that was how she responded to all types of violence- by becoming smaller, retreating into herself like a turtle. It's what made her such a bad fighter.

Marcus realised he'd never caused Didyme to be distressed or upset before… because it was difficult to displace her sunny disposition. But now it seemed to be so easy; a couple of words said in bitterness, not earnestness, and he'd sent their bond careening off its tracks.

He wanted... more than _anything…_ to gather her up in his arms and tell her it was alright; they wouldn't be conquered by time or circumstance. A part of him longed to keep her completely innocent of the Volturi- the triumvirate of Chelsea, Corin and Jane- because it would be easier to start again than start to explain. Where would one even _begin?_

But he had responsibilities now; to his brothers, to Volterra, and to the Law. He couldn't discount three thousand years in a single evening. And neither would they; if he broke the Law they'd treat him with the same indifference as any other criminal. No one upheld Aro's _New World Maxims_ as rigorously as those who enforced them.

(And it was only a year… after that, he wouldn't have to see that dreadful castle ever again. But for now, he was bound and gagged as much as any Volturi member.)

He dragged his chair away from her. "I think you're delirious," he said. "You _look _unwell."

His words made the hair on the back of Didyme's neck stand up. Her voice dipped to an unmasked whisper. _"What's wrong with you?" _

"What's wrong with _you_?" He gripped the familiar topography of his bony kneecaps, trying to stop himself from lashing out at something. His resolve almost crumbled.

"Sorry to but in here," Agnes interjected diplomatically. "But I'm confused. Is he a vampire or not?"

Didyme's head bopped up and down in a gross exaggeration of a nod. "_Yes_!"

"No," Marcus said.

"Well, he's certainly freakishly _white_ enough to be a vampire." Agnes sighed, and looked to her brother. "What do you think?"

"I can't see… I can't see _why_ Didyme would make something like this up," he replied, ever the voice of reason.

A hush, big enough to host a moderately-sized evening function in, fell across the table as the twins slowly came to grips with the gravitas of the situation.

"Please," Marcus said, abruptly sincere in the extreme, "is there nothing I could say to change your mind?"

Aubrey looked at the girl and boy, side-by-side, monochrome and sepia, sombre and vivacious. His eyes met Didyme's, and she nodded in encouragement, the ghost of relief etched into a smile. He couldn't think of one good reason why she'd lie... let alone put up such a furore as she had. Besides, he lived and breathed the supernatural already, didn't he? _Vampires are real. _It wasn't any stretch of the imagination.

He shook his head slowly. "No."

Marcus looked down at his plate. "Then I hope your death is painless."

Faster than he could protest- or _think_ of a protest- with the lonely clap of force encountering meat_-_ Marcus's fork was buried in Aubrey's chest.

"_Merda_, missed," Marcus said. "I was aiming for your heart. I appear to have pierced a lung instead."

Aubrey was too shocked to listen. It was as though his band of hearing had suddenly shrunken; he could hear the rustle of his clothes and the sound of his heart skipping a beat, but little ambient noise. He didn't feel the pain yet. Just the cold, alien feel of stainless steel parting his flesh. He could only watch with soundless, increasing horror as a thin stream of red ran down the front of his shirt. Unlike other bumps and scrapes in his life, it was mortal, Ferrari red.

_I've always wanted to drive a Ferrari_, he thought before the wound really began to gush.

And then the pain hit, sending him toppling over with a choking cry.

Agnes leapt to her feet, a scream ripping from her throat with a wildness that brought tears to her eyes.

Mr. Lévi sat very still, blinking several times in succession.

Didyme was halfway out of her seat before she realised it. She wasn't sure what her intentions were. The room seemed to be growing bigger and smaller simultaneously, and she noticed a corner of the room she'd never thought to look before, where two lines on the wall met with a geometric beauty that temporarily arrested the momentum of her thoughts. She stumbled over a chair- _how did a chair get on the floor?- _and very nearly sprawled over Aubrey's twitching body.

He had paled rapidly. Aubrey was very beautiful, and the lily-whiteness only enhanced his ethereal appearance. His fine silver hair was tousled so artfully it was as if by design.

Didyme fell down on her hands and knees. The world careened into stark unreality. The keening noise Agnes was making nearly cleaved her skull in two. It didn't sound like it could be made by human lungs.

There was already a bright bib of blood under the fork. Didyme seized it and pulled. It gave way with a wet sucking; she could feel it scraping against something solid inside him.

When it was out she dropped it immediately. It was red right up the hilt, like it had been dipped in ink.

With the obstruction gone, blood gushed freely from the wound with a rhythmic pulsing, in step with his heart. She covered it with her hands, and her sleeves were soon stained.

Didyme cast about for something to pack over it, but Agnes's screaming had turned to glue and stuck her in place. "_Agnes- stop- I can't think!"_

The girl clammed up immediately. She averted her eyes from the recumbent figure- to the landline by the door.

Didyme remembered the white handkerchief in her pocket. It wasn't designed for stemming blood flow, and it was already stained with salt, but it was all she had.

The heavy weight on his chest briefly revived Aubrey. His eyes fluttered open. "Di…" he croaked, finding it very hard to speak. Something was crushing his chest; even drawing the smallest breath took a gargantuan effort. "… H-help."

"Don't speak," she instructed.

He tried to laugh, then grimaced. Blood ran down the sides of his mouth. "That's not good."

"You'll be alright," Didyme said, an optimist to the point of stupidity. "I've seen worse."

She smiled over the sound of Agnes yelling into the phone.

"Why… why did… he _stab _me…?" Bubbles of blood formed and popped on Aubrey's lips when he spoke.

"Don't worry about that. Focus on what's important right now."

Her thumb felt silky where it stroked his skin, leaving butterscotch trails that promised to take him somewhere he didn't hurt quite so much.

Her words registered more slowly than her touch; they had to sink through the air first, which had tripled in density.

"Yeah… important." Another spasm rocked through him. "I need to tell you something…"

Surprisingly, he found it very easy to think. Certain mysteries that had troubled him for the past year suddenly become very clear in his mind. It was easier than ever to wrap his mind around complex ideas. _They should get dying people to solve problems_, he thought errantly. _Do algebra or something._

"Now's _not _the time to confess your feelings for me," Didyme joked sternly. _She's very good at hiding the edge of panic in her voice,_ Aubrey thought. _Like an assassin can hide knives under their clothes._

"Oh… no," Aubrey countered feebly. "I _like _you… but I don't _like like _you… not enough to go out with you. Besides, you can't have a relationship with your sibling's best friend… it's a recipe for disaster." As he ended the sentence more blood poured from his mouth- he was gagging on it. Choking on a fountain of blood.

Didyme didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so she did both. It wasn't a decorous sound.

"But that's… not the important thing," Aubrey continued. Now she knew how he ate so much chocolate and didn't put on weight; it all went into a reservoir of strength reserved for moments like this. "I want to tell you about the past."

"The past?"

"I see it, you know? It's… my defining feature. Never wanted it to be. But it does have its uses…" he struggled to sit up. Sweat broke across his brow. She pushed him down firmly. "I never understood why… some of yours was in _French_ even _before_ you spoke it. But it _wasn't you._"

Didyme felt it was a waste of energy to get him to cease speaking; she could only hope he'd stop by choice. The strain on his lung was killing him all the faster.

"The memories of your twin…" he said faintly. Didyme leaned closer, pressing his chest like a springboard, until their noses almost bumped.

"… they're the only ones I can actually _read_… it's all to do with…" he seized the front of her cardigan. It brought her ear right up against his face. "The _crows_, Didyme. _Huginn and Muninn…" _

"I don't understand," she whispered to the kitchen cupboard. From her perspective, it was all she could see.

"He made clocks in the shape of crows, see?" Aubrey released her; she leaned back immediately. There was blood in her hair now, too. Aubrey opened his palm, and the little bird timepiece was revealed, ripped from her cardigan. "My grandfather made _two_ of them. One for… one for _him… _and one for _you_."

"Me?" She was completely discombobulated. "I don't know your grandfather."

"But you _do…" _Aubrey was trying to convey something very urgent with his eyes. His skin was an ashen colour now. "… Can't you see? _He's the whole reason you're here!" _

He'd clearly spent the last of his energy. His grip on the clockwork bird went slack; his breath, when it came, was accompanied by a rich squelching sound. The blood beneath her hands pumped more sluggishly.

Didyme wondered why _on Earth_ he'd wasted so much energy to tell her something about _clocks_. It was absurd.

Agnes fell to her knees beside her brother. "The ambulance will be here shortly."

Her trembling hand swept a lock of silver from her brother's forehead. "I'll take over," she said sharply. All her forced precociousness was stripped away, revealing a young woman with nerves of steel. Her hands pushed under Didyme's. "I'll take over now."

"I…" Didyme began.

_"Just get that demon out of my house,_" Agnes spat.

It took a moment for Didyme to work it out. _That demon… _she meant Marcus.

Didyme rose to her feet, gripping the table for balance. The room was spinning away from her. There was blood all over the linoleum, which had a pattern like a storm.

The phone handset was hanging by its cord, the dial tone perceptible from across the room. Mr. Lévi had somehow teleported himself to Aubrey, and the three of them knitted together. Agnes's golden hair spilled down her back. Mr. Lévi was cradling his son's head so gently for such a large man.

The last thing to take stock of was herself. The front of her dress- her hands- her arms- her hair- the blood was _everywhere_. She tried rubbing a spot out, but the damned thing just smeared more.

And Marcus, during the entire proceeding, was standing in front of the refrigerator. He wore an expression somewhere between pensive and bored as his fingers idly rearranged alphabet magnets into a nonsensical sentence.

Marcus was playing with fridge magnets when the life of the boy he'd stabbed leaked through his chest.

"You don't have another _x_," he observed, standing out of the way to let her read the garble he'd written.

DURA LEX SED LE

"Let me try again." His hands rapidly slid the plastic across metal.

IGNORANTIA JURIS NON EXCUSAT

"What does that mean?" Didyme whispered as he slid the final _t_ into place.

"My sweet _ingénue…_" Marcus lilted as he turned around. "I'm afraid I can't find the words to explain."

"Do you have any idea what you've just done?" Didyme paused. "Do you even care?"

He looked incredulous. "When it was just faceless peasants, did _you?" _

Didyme felt a tingling sensation across her skin as the blood started to stick to her skin. "Tell me there's a reason."

He stepped closer, his expression changing to equanimity. "What if there isn't one?"

"Then…" She took in a deep breath. "Then you would've changed beyond all recognition. And I'd ask you to leave."

"_Oh, perfect creature of my heart_," Marcus breathed. His face was a bright band of pain. "Caius would have a field day if he found out I broke the Law. He'd _crucify _me. I'd be powerless to stop him…" He angrily swiped at the alphabet magnets, causing half the sentence he'd made to crash to the floor in a bright cascade.

"We're talking about _laws?"_ Didyme laughed, but she felt far from happy. "Do you think you're getting away with this? Do you think I could _bear _that? When it makes me a conspirator too? When the paramedics take Aubrey away… when the police come… I'm telling them what happened."

"Didyme, that boy has a puncture wound from a _fork_. It's not humanly possible to inflict a wound like that."

"Of course it isn't; a human didn't make it!" She stomped her foot, and felt instantly ashamed. Only children did that. "Nobody is above the law, Marcus. Not even you."

"_Precisamente," _Marcus murmured. "This won't make sense to you right now, but if it leaves this room that vampires exist, I'm a dead man. I'm breaking _your_ laws if you lie; but I'll break _mine_ if you tell the truth. And _my_ Law is just an increment more lethal. You and the fortune-teller… I plan on turning you; but the boy… and the old man… must die."

His face darkened.

"Mr. Lévi?" Her voice jumped an octave higher. "What has he done?"

He made a start towards the man on the floor, but Didyme suddenly in front him, with the same look of wild desperation he saw on the face of his nymph. "You're not going to kill him!"

"I have no choice," Marcus simply stated. He tried to push past her.

_"Stop!" _She screeched, tears springing through slitted eyes. "You can't! _Look at him! He's catatonic! Please_… oh, please…"

He seized her firmly by the shoulders, wary of her delicate frame. "He's only one man, Didyme."

"Don't," she begged. Her hands made fists around his clothes when he lifted her off the floor. They left red Rorschach marks on the material.

He waltzed her across the floor, ignoring her screamed protestations. When she realised it was futile, she lay her bloody hands across his mouth and nose, trying to insert a finger into a mouth that was firmly clamped shut.

The scent of fresh blood paralysed him. Panic and confusion clouded his expression.

"I'd rather you kill _me_," she sobbed, chest heaving, "than murder the good stranger who has given me house and home."

He tried not to inhale. But the sweet smell of drupes, intermingled with fresh blood, was inescapable. The thirst that went unquenched for weeks on end flared up; a tight and painful cord that pulled through the length of his trachea, sizzling the skin along its breadth. It would be less painful if someone shoved a hot poker down his throat.

"It's not your nature, _Markos… _you were so _gentle, kind_…" her voice hitched, thin as it was. "I beg of you… _stop… _if not for who you are now, then for who you once were. _Remember…" _

Marcus reached up and tentatively wrapped his hand around her wrist. His whole arm was shaking as he fought the impulse to bring it to his lips and _drink_… to relieve himself of a pain so excruciating it obliterated all reason. He gasped softly, closing his eyes. It made little difference. His grip grew more ardent and something in Didyme's wrist _crunched_. She cried out as pain's sharp teeth wracked up her arm.

He let go instantly, and she wasted no time snatching her hand away. He looked over her shoulder at the old man slumped over the body of his son; the battlefield of broken bonds around him; the emptiness than ran deeper than simple grief for his wife. Didyme was right; Mr. Lévi wasn't a threat to anyone.

Marcus shuddered. He'd come so _close _to killing the only thing that was capable of causing him more pain than thirst.

Her eyes moved to the floor, but not before he caught the cold touch of fear. "I'll lie; I promise you," she implored. "I'll lie until my tongue gets black and forked. Aubrey tripped on his cutlery. He stabbed himself. I'll _make_ them believe me."

"I can explain…"

"There's no need," she said hurriedly.

"No, Didyme, there's good reason-"

"They'll be here soon." Her voice sounded haggard; flat and closed. It was shutting him out. She held her damaged wrist in her good one; they were both caked in blood. "You can't be here."

It was the most transparent _go away _he'd ever heard from her.

"I'll show you the back door."

She walked him into the narrow hallway. Despite its limited width, a staircase was squeezed in there too. Marcus didn't waste the opportunity to drag the clean, bloodless air into his lungs.

Didyme held a pane-glass door open for him. Her expression was neutral; weary. There was just the barest drizzle of rain now, but the cold remained. It felt like a vacuum, softy pulling him into the dark.

He vacillated on the threshold. "Your wrist…" he gingerly reached out for her.

_"Don't touch me," _she whispered, flinching from the skin contact. Didyme closed the door on him, giving him to the night.

* * *

Didyme turned her back on the door. She felt too exhausted to juggle all the emotions rushing through her. Her hand throbbed like she was wearing a bracelet of thorns- and she was glad for it. She might've collapsed if it weren't for its sharp, insistent bite.

The kitchen was silent. Even at a distance, Didyme could tell the pale body on the floor was beyond resuscitation. The pool of blood wasn't completely congealed; rigor mortis was yet to set in. But he was dead. Agnes wasn't holding his wound anymore, but her hand still clung to the scarlet handkerchief. She was crying noiselessly, and the room possessed the same bated breath as an open grave.

It was a scene Didyme knew too well, and hoped never to witness again. Only, when it was Didyme's brother, his body was purple and furrowed by sea water, not stark white and splayed like a starfish…

_Markos did this. _His name was a heavy stone on her heart; if only she could cast it away so easily.

_No… _Marcus_. Markos_ _is gone. _

She felt the parameters of her life tightening around her, and Didyme had never felt so… helpless. If she couldn't fight, out run, or talk herself out of the knot she'd suddenly become tangled in, she didn't know how to get free.

A knot with the boy who was a like beautiful, cursed dagger. And for better or worse… someone she still loved.

Then the paramedics flooded in, and the flurry of movement and sound around her was distraction enough from the cold dread that yawned inside.

* * *

**Author's note: **well that sure puts a damper on their birthday plans.

I'm truly sorry for the wait with this one. I spent most of my Easter break writing to get this posted. On the plus side, it's almost double the size of a normal chapter!

I was sincerely flattered by your reviews on the last chapter. I thought it was really cheesy so… I wasn't expecting that. Thank you :)

Back to Volterra in the next one! *Cheers*


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